Poison and Wine
by rslhilson
Summary: A dying Wilson returns home after a 5-year absence. Loosely based on the film "In the Gloaming" with eventual H/W slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 1_

**Author's Note (sorry for the length xD): **This is not a crossover fic by any means, but it is loosely based on the RSL film "In the Gloaming" (and the title is taken from the song by The Civil Wars). AU in that Amber survived the bus crash and took off with Wilson at the end of Season 4. Minus Wilson's absence, everything else that has occurred on the show since then is still game. Hopefully the only discrepancy is that I've kept Cuddy around (since it takes place 5 years post-Wilson's Heart, this would technically be Season 9 – and apparently we've seen the last of her after Moving On). As far as warnings go, there will be an eventual character death (among general House spoilers), and Hilson is an eventual pairing.

* * *

><p><em>I don't have a choice, but I still choose you.<br>_- The Civil Wars, "Poison & Wine"

When you don't see your best friend for five years, it seems pretty fair to label that relationship as essentially fucked.

The last he'd heard from Wilson was in the form of a postcard, one side plastered with the Hollywood sign and the other covered in typical doctor – or rather, ex-doctor – chicken scratch. _We're moving to LA_._ Here's our new number. _It hadn't been so much an invitation as an ultimatum, but House had made his decision a long time ago.

What the hell would he have called for, anyway? They'd had more than enough arguments over the phone before he'd let Wilson fall off the map. There's only so many times you can tell an idiot that he's been brainwashed before you start to realize that you have better things to do – best friend or not.

Cuddy had actually accused him of being jealous at first. Talk about missing the point. It had nothing to do with his leg or his misery, what it was he could or couldn't do. He had no desire to run off to Vegas with anyone, much less a Cutthroat Bitch whose near-death experience had suddenly warped her vision of life. Grab your man, quit your job, and catch the next flight out of Jersey. Live your life before you die having never even lived.

It was one of the stupidest plans House had ever heard.

He wasn't even angry about frying his brain for CB, or that Wilson had chosen her over him (Cuddy's words, just to be clear). It was just a stupid, stupid idea, even for a moron like Wilson.

They'd talked on the phone every few days, Wilson calling from their hotel room in Vegas since Amber had tossed their pagers and phones as part of their new life philosophy. And they'd yell about whether or not she was actually a brainwashing little bitch, and Wilson would end the call confirming, for the umpteenth time, that he was not planning to return to Princeton-Plainsboro anytime soon.

Eventually, House had stopped picking up, and the subsequent postcard was filed away in the bottom of his sock drawer.

And five years later, the number was glowing on his cell phone screen for the first time.

* * *

><p>"I need some time off."<p>

Cuddy rolled her eyes at House. "If seeing even one patient a week is getting to be too much for you – "

"It's Wilson."

She snapped to attention, searching for any sign of a joke in his eyes but finding none. "Is he…is he alright?"

"He's fine enough to move back onto my couch."

"He's staying with _you_? House, he hasn't even _spoken_ to you in...in God knows how long. What about Amber?"

House's subsequent silence answered Cuddy's question, and she sighed. "Is he coming back for good?"

"Don't worry. Your idiot of a replacement Jenkins is safe."

Cuddy ignored his jab at the latest Head of Oncology, who, needless to say, was not thrilled about having to share a balcony with House. "How long?" she finally asked.

"A few weeks and he'll be gone. Before you let HR shit themselves," he added quickly, holding up his hand to stop Cuddy's response, "you don't even have to keep me on payroll. Just let Foreman do his I'm-in-charge-except-when-the-team-calls-House-every-five-minutes-in-panic-mode thing until I get back."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "And you'd seriously be okay with that?" she asked, disbelieving. "You'd forgo your paycheck and put Foreman in charge just to entertain Wilson?"

"What can I say?" House shrugged. "I'm capable of making sacrifices."

There was silence as Cuddy considered, House impatiently gripping his cane. He knew what she was thinking – that for all that he was never willing to sacrifice for her, he was suddenly ready to give up his money and time for a man he hadn't seen in five years. But he wouldn't apologize or explain, and she wouldn't question or push.

And as she always did, even after the inevitable relationship that they'd pursued had, inevitably, crumbled, she finally caved. "If you're sure, House – "

"Great. Are we done here?"

"I…yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

Successful at last, he headed for the door, but Cuddy's voice stopped him. "House?"

He sighed, turning to face her again.

"Tell him…tell him I'd like to see him. You know, when he gets in."

House nodded. "Okay."

"And tell him that if he wants his old job back – "

"He won't."

She nodded, looking slightly defeated. "Well…have fun."

"Yeah." House opened the door, letting the chatter from the clinic stream in as he left. "Fun."

* * *

><p>He hadn't felt like telling her that Wilson was actually arriving tonight. What for, anyway? So she could follow him home and camp out until Wilson showed up? Forget it. The last thing he needed was Cuddy back in his apartment, reminding him of a romance gone so wrong that not even Wilson could compete. Three ex-wives, sex with a dying patient, and dating CB had nothing on driving a car into an ex-girlfriend's house – even though she'd somehow found it in herself to forgive him.<p>

He also hadn't told Cuddy that Wilson was coming back to New Jersey to die, but that was just another minor detail that she didn't need to know.

As he did every night after work, House lay casually on the couch in his living room, a beer in one hand and a bottle of Vicodin in the other. Just because Wilson was about to march back into his life after a 5-year absence didn't mean that _everything_ had to change. The only indication that tonight was any different from all other nights was the additional takeout box of dumplings, waiting patiently next to his usual mushu pork.

But actually, waiting for Wilson was like waiting for a bomb to go off. The minutes were ticking down, and if it weren't for his curiosity and his bum leg, he probably would've run in the other direction rather than stick around to see how big the explosion would be.

When he heard the car pulling up to the curb, he didn't need to look out the window to know that it was Wilson's taxi. A minute later, there was the sound of the vehicle pulling away, followed by a soft, steady knock.

And as he opened the door, it was as if nothing had changed. Between the familiar kicked-out-by-the-woman suitcases and the lopsided smile, there was no way that five years had gone by.

Except for the fact that they had.

"House," Wilson finally said, giving a slight shrug as if to say, _here I am_. "Hi."

"Hey yourself," House replied, and in spite of himself, he couldn't help but smile back.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 2_

"Want a beer?" House limped into the kitchen as Wilson dragged his suitcases inside, closing the door behind him.

"Don't think I should."

"Ah. Right. Wouldn't want to marinate an already cancerous liver in alcohol." House returned to the living room with another beer for himself. "Metastatic, you said?" he continued casually.

"Subtlety never was your strong suit," Wilson smirked.

House ignored him. "You hungry? I ordered Chinese. With my _own_ credit card, no less."

"Impressive." Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, still standing behind the couch. "House – "

"Don't," House interrupted. Five years apart and he could still read Wilson's mind the way he could look at an x-ray and know in an instant what was wrong. Shit.

"Look, it's been a long time – "

"Do you not know the meaning of the word 'Don't'"? Dictionary's on the shelf."

Wilson opened his mouth as if to argue, but changed his mind. "Well," he said instead, clearing his throat, "it was nice of you to let me stay."

"No choice. Go put your stuff in the bedroom," he added quickly, before Wilson could respond. "It's taking up precious space."

"The bedroom?" Wilson frowned. "But there's only – "

"Cancer beats crippled leg," House explained breezily, waving him away. "And seriously, you don't _want _to know what's gone down on this couch. Hurry up…food's getting cold."

* * *

><p>They ate in silence, pretending to watch a hockey game rerun on low volume. Without letting his eyes stray too noticeably from the television screen, House glanced over and took in the ever boyish features that had once made the nurses swoon, and that now made him want to vomit at the thought of cancerous tumors leaving nothing familiar behind of Wilson but vulnerability.<p>

Without his even realizing it, his hand moved to his propped-up leg, massaging the area where his mangled flesh lay hidden beneath his jeans.

"I guess it never goes away," Wilson said quietly.

"Yes, please be all cryptic in the way you broach the subject of pain." House grimaced, withdrawing his hand almost self-consciously. "As if I don't have enough puzzles to solve in my life."

Wilson nodded towards the Vicodin bottle in his other hand. "Still?" he asked.

"On and off," House shrugged. "Okay, mostly on. Detoxing is too much of a bitch, and one stay in the nuthouse was enough." He snorted as Wilson's eyebrows shot up. "Don't act all surprised that the pills eventually fucked up my brain."

"What happened?"

"I hallucinated hot, steamy sex with Cuddy," House replied matter-of-factly. "Came true about a year later, though."

Wilson choked on his dumplings. "You mean…you and Cuddy…?"

"Yep. Except then I went back on the pills because I thought she was dying, and then she dumped my high, sorry ass, and _then _I crashed my car into her house. But, you know, we're good now. Strictly professional."

Wilson stared at him for a while. "I guess I've been gone a long time," he said finally.

They continued to watch the game in silence, until House turned to look at him again. "You're not playing fair," he accused.

"Hmm?"

"I told you everything that's happened in the past five years, and you've told me nothing."

"House, brushing over psychiatric stays and a relationship with Cuddy hardly qualifies as telling me everything." Wilson sighed, meeting his gaze. "Anyway, there isn't much to tell."

"Says the man who's spent the last five years in Vegas and LA, and came back sans girlfriend. There's _always _something to tell."

"Not tonight," Wilson said. He stood and began to collect the now-empty takeout boxes. "Shouldn't you be going to bed soon? Or do you still make it a habit to show up two hours late to work?"

"I'm not going to work."

Wilson glanced down at him disapprovingly. "Don't play hooky on my account."

"I'm not. I'm taking a leave of absence."

"_What?_ House – "

"Don't bother. It's already done."

Wilson's arms hung limp at his sides, and for a moment House imagined the way his hands would have rested on his hips had he not been carrying the remains of their dinner. "House, I never wanted you to turn your whole life around just for – "

"Just for my dying ex-best friend?" House popped the lid on his Vicodin bottle and shook a few pills into his hand. "Those tumors aren't going anywhere, you know."

"I'm an oncologist. I think I know that."

"_Were _an oncologist. Running off for five years just makes you a fugitive."

Wilson's head dipped into an almost imperceptible nod. He sat back down onto the couch, the takeout boxes still in his hands. "I didn't call you so that you could take care of me," he said.

"Right. You just lost all your money in some Vegas casino and couldn't afford a hotel."

"I never wanted to inconvenience you. I just thought…well, I thought that maybe it would be nice to see you again. But if you'd rather I checked into a hotel – "

"Forget it. You _and _Cuddy already think I'm enough of an ass."

"You crashed your car into her house, and you still care what Cuddy thinks?"

"No."

Wilson paused. "You stopped answering my calls, and you still care what _I _think?"

There was another pause, and then House was poking Wilson's leg with his cane. "Go to bed," he said. "I can't sleep if you're still in here."

"You _did_ have a choice. You didn't have to let me stay with you."

"I'm tired." He waved his hand to dismiss Wilson into the bedroom. "But I expect a full account of your nomadic travels tomorrow."

"House, you're just deflect– "

"_Goodnight, _Wilson."

With a heavy, defeated sigh, Wilson stood from the couch, dumping the takeout boxes into the kitchen garbage before heading to the bedroom. "Goodnight, House."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 3_

**Author's Note: **There's a certain quotation in here that doesn't belong to me. RSL/Lamby Tape fans will probably spot it and laugh. :)

* * *

><p>They sat on a park bench the next day, taking shelter in the shade from the late August sun. It had been Wilson's idea to drive down to the lake and take a walk, and despite his complaints about the suffocating feeling of the small, cluttered apartment, House suspected that he'd just wanted fresh air. He'd forgone breakfast and only nibbled on a PB&amp;J for lunch, and House wondered how much effort it had taken just to eat the Chinese food the night before.<p>

"This is nice," Wilson said. He took a deep breath, his gaze resting gently on the shimmering waters of the lake. House noted the long jeans that Wilson had chosen over the summer shorts that he used to wear.

"Not enough nature where you were?" he asked.

"Vegas and LA aren't all they're cracked up to be." Wilson shifted in his seat to get more comfortable, a small smile forming on his face. "A guy I met there once told me that LA was just a soulless, bleached-out pit."

"Sounds like Cuddy's heart," House muttered.

"Or yours," Wilson snorted.

House cocked his head to the side. "Maybe our soulless, bleached-out hearts were a sign that we were supposed to be together."

"Or maybe Cuddy's heart was just fine."

"You weren't there. You wouldn't know."

And Wilson couldn't argue with that, so he didn't.

"Your team must miss you," he said instead.

"Please," House scoffed. "Foreman's probably already basking in dictatorial glory. And I'm sure the other ducklings couldn't care less that daddy's gone."

"Any new doctors?"

"Nope. Still stuck with the Australian and the hot bi chick. Not complaining about that last one, though."

"So Chase is back on the team. Cameron and Kutner ditch you for good?" Wilson asked.

"Yep."

"Where'd they go?"

House shrugged. "Cameron divorced Chase and ran like hell. As if we didn't all see that one coming."

"They got _married_? Jesus. What about Kutner? Don't tell me he married and divorced Thirteen."

"He's dead. Killed himself."

"….Oh," Wilson said softly.

There was a pause. "Did you marry and divorce Amber?" House asked.

Wilson smirked. "Nice transition."

"I bet you got married in Vegas with a rabbinical Elvis. Mazel tov."

"Actually, we never got married."

House frowned. "You ran away with that Cutthroat Bitch for five years, and you never even got married?"

"She didn't want to. Marriage is…marriage ties you down. You know, binding contracts, whatever. She just wanted to live."

"To live without any commitments, not even to you? That sounds very adult."

"Like you're one to talk, House. Anyway, we _were_ committed to each other. We just never felt the need to legalize it."

"Right."

"For what it's worth, we haven't been together in about a year."

"What happened?"

Wilson shrugged. "Wanna go for another walk?"

* * *

><p>They continued their walk around the lake, passing children with kites and grandparents tossing breadcrumbs to the passing ducks. It was a few minutes before Wilson began, his eyes squinting in the sunlight as he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets.<p>

"We stayed in Vegas for the first year," he said at last. "We got our own place eventually, but our savings only lasted so long, and Amber hadn't even begun to pay off her loans…"

"It's called a job. You had one once, back here." House didn't tell him how long Cuddy had kept his position open, hoping that Wilson would return; how often he himself had been only steps away from the door until he remembered that the Head of Oncology's office was no longer occupied.

"Amber didn't want either of us to get one. She said…" Wilson paused to find his words, keeping his eyes looking ahead to avoid House's gaze. "It was this whole new life philosophy thing. Working wasn't a part of it."

House didn't falter, though his mind was whirring. This was James Wilson, Dr. Prepared, life planner extraordinaire. It didn't make sense. "And you seriously bought that crap?"

"I worked a few nights a week," Wilson admitted. "Amber met this group of women that she went out with, you know, to clubs or whatever. I wasn't lying when I told her I wasn't interested. I just…also happened to make some extra money at one of the hotel bars while she was gone. I told her I won it gambling."

House tried to imagine Wilson in a starched white shirt and black bow tie, serving margaritas instead of death sentences and replenishing peanuts instead of chemo bags.

Wilson turned to him then. "You must think I'm crazy."

"No, I think _Amber _was crazy. But you're talking to someone who was actually certified insane." House waved his hand. "Continue."

"Well, a year of that got boring, obviously, and her second choice was LA. We stayed with one of her friends from med school until we found a cheap apartment."

"And then?"

"And then, we just…lived."

"Lived as in, more partying for her and more secret bartending for you?"

Wilson shrugged. "I still loved her," he said, as if some sort of explanation was required. "I wanted what she wanted."

"What she _wanted _was a life of no responsibility. Almost dying doesn't magically make that okay."

"But it did make it okay, for her. And I made it work. We had a great four years together, House."

"And the fifth year?" House asked.

Wilson inhaled deeply. "I met someone," he said, and House snorted.

"Typical. Who was she?"

"Met her at the bar."

"Probably some chick being abused by her boyfriend and latching on to the cute bartender for comfort – prime definition of neediness," House mused, ignoring Wilson's eye-roll. "Did you sleep with her?"

"Not until after I told Amber, and she left me."

House sighed melodramatically. "Oh, Wilson. When will you ever learn…"

"I wasn't going to lie to her, House. I still loved her."

"Yeah, you loved her enough to cheat on her. Sounds like a match made in Wilson heaven."

"Anyway," Wilson continued, ignoring him, "I moved in with Amanda for about a year."

"And then?"

"And then…" Wilson stopped to kick a pebble on the ground, watching it bump along the path until it curved and rolled down into the lake. "I went to the doctor, one thing led to another…"

House stopped beside him. "Of course you'd ignore your symptoms and wait too long," he said. "Once an oncologist, always an oncologist."

"Maybe." Wilson withdrew his eyes from the lake, meeting House's gaze. "I don't want chemo just to buy some extra time," he said.

"I know."

"I just…I want to live, the way Amber did. Maybe almost dying doesn't change things, but dying does. It has to."

House nodded. "I know," he said again, and Wilson turned back to the lake.

"I didn't know what I wanted to do," he said softly. "I just knew I couldn't die without seeing you again."

House turned to look at the lake with him. He watched the sunlight cast a shimmering glow on the water as ducks paddled happily across, in search of breadcrumbs and companionship.

"Come on," he said, nudging Wilson's ankle with his cane. "As long as you're staying with me, you may as well buy my dinner."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Hungry already?"

"Unlike you, I still have an appetite. Which means that I can eat _all _of your food, instead of just half."

"I don't suppose you'd ask my permission first."

"Good God, no."

Wilson shook his head, laughing a little as they turned and began to walk in the direction of the car. "I guess _some_ things never change."

"Admit it," House grinned. "You miss me stealing your food."

"Once an ass, always an ass?"

"You're a fast learner, Jimmy."

"I certainly try."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 4_

The next evening, Cuddy looked pissed about having to see him, but not as pissed as House felt about having to see her. The angry lines around her mouth and eyes were nothing new, but the way they softened before she had a chance to grind out her scolding wasn't unexpected, either.

"Wilson!" Cuddy rushed past House and through the doorway into the apartment, collecting an unsuspecting Wilson into a hug. "Oh my _God!_"

"Watch the cripple," House muttered, closing the door behind her and limping back to his spot on the living room couch.

"Cuddy," Wilson chuckled. "It's good to see you."

"I can't believe it," she gushed. Finally letting go, she accused him playfully, "You've lost weight, haven't you?"

House snorted from the couch, reminding her of his presence as she turned on him. "And _you,_" she thundered. "Why didn't you tell me he was here?"

"Because I'm not a complete masochist?"

"_And _you've been ignoring all of my phone calls, and Foreman's. You know I wouldn't be here if you'd just pick up your damn phone."

House cocked his head over his shoulder from the couch. "Team missing me already?"

"Part of our agreement was that you'd be available to consult them."

"Did we get that in writing?"

"House, quit being an ass and call Foreman," Wilson cut in.

"Yes. Go – now." Cuddy scurried over to the couch and shooed House away, her high-heels clicking on the floor as her other hand gripped Wilson's and dragged him along. "_Wilson _and I have some catching up to do."

"Oh, right. Girl talk." House stood and grabbed his cell phone from the coffee table before making his way into the bedroom, smirking as he caught Wilson rolling his eyes.

"So," Cuddy grinned, taking Wilson's hand in both of her own as they sat down. "Tell me _everything_."

* * *

><p>"So what'd you tell her?"<p>

Wilson shrugged, picking at the pepperoni slice that had fallen off of his pizza. "The truth."

"Which was?"

"That it was very nice of her to want to take me out to dinner, but I was tired, and maybe next time."

House glared at him, and Wilson sighed.

"I just told her that Amber and I split our time between Vegas and LA, but we drifted apart and I decided to come back for a while. It wasn't a total lie."

"Right." House frowned, squinting as he leaned in closer to Wilson. "You're yellowing."

"And you're cripple…ing."

"You should be happy I'm too cheap to get decent lighting in this place…and that Cuddy's too proud to get her eyes checked." House nodded towards Wilson's pizza. "You gonna finish that?"

Wilson wordlessly handed the paper plate to House, who immediately began to scarf down the half-eaten slice.

"House?" he said.

"Whaght?" House mumbled, still chewing.

"What happened between you and Cuddy?"

"Oh, for…" House gulped the food down and turned back to Wilson, glaring at him again. "What the hell do you care? Oh wait, I forgot. You have cancer _and _pathological caring syndrome. Can't decide which one of us is more unlucky."

Wilson ignored him. "You tell me that you crashed your car into her house, and you don't expect me to be the least bit curious?"

"Nope."

Wilson narrowed his eyes, and House sighed. "We broke up, she had a guy over, I was pissed, yadda yadda. Undercover bartending is way more exciting."

"So you took revenge by driving a car through her wall – classy. Remind me why you broke up again? You thought she was sick?"

House's gaze reverted back to his pizza crust. "Obviously she's fine."

"But there was a point when you didn't think so."

"And I may or may not have popped a pill to get through it."

"She found out?"

"So the story goes."

Wilson sighed. "You two could've been great together," he said.

"Says the expert on failed relationships," House muttered, but Wilson pushed forward.

"All I'm saying is, you could've made it work if you put some effort into it."

"You think I didn't try?"

"I think if you needed to go back on Vicodin to be there for her, then no, not really."

"Which you clearly know because you were there."

"House, I don't need to have been there to know that if you'd really wanted to, you could've done your part without the drugs."

House rolled his eyes. "Five years in paradise and you're still full of crap, Wilson."

"So are you," Wilson retorted.

House shrugged. "I'm okay with that."

"But you loved her, didn't you?" Wilson pressed.

House was silent, and Wilson's voice gently prodded him again. "Didn't you, House?"

"I thought I did. I don't know. Maybe." House tossed his plate onto the coffee table and leaned back into the couch. "What's done is done."

Wilson leaned back with him, lips pursed as he tried to think of something comforting to say. "Well…it was probably the same on her end, too," he finally offered.

"What do you mean?"

"You screwed up with the pills, but she couldn't accept you with them. If she really loved you, she would have. _I _would have."

House's eyebrows quirked, and Wilson quickly cleared his throat and turned away.

"Just to make it even," House replied smoothly, "I wouldn't have needed pills to sit at _your _bedside."

Wilson smirked. "Guess we'll see, won't we?"

House paused, his head drifting lazily onto his shoulder as he glanced towards Wilson. "You miss Amber?" he asked.

Wilson met his gaze, surprised at the sudden turn. "Yes."

"Why?"

"You can't think of even one reason why I'd miss a woman I loved?"

"Loved as in past tense, or love as in present tense?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Maybe this caring thing is starting to rub off on me," House shrugged.

Wilson snorted. "Yeah, right. And my ass is blue."

"Yellow, actually."

"Shut up, House." Wilson rolled his eyes at him, then grew serious again. "Do you miss Cuddy?"

"Nope."

"Did you miss _me_?"

House groaned. "Don't start."

"I missed _you, _you know."

"What was that about your ass being blue?"

"You're the one who stopped picking up your phone," Wilson pointed out.

"Because you were being a complete idiot," House retorted.

"Is that just your solution for everything now? Giving up? Since when do you ever give up?"

"You think _I _gave up on _you_? At least you're finally admitting you had a problem."

"You make it sound like I needed drugs to be with the woman I supposedly loved. Oh wait, that was you."

House grabbed his cane and pushed it into Wilson's leg.

"Ow!"

"Leave," House ordered. "Now. Go to bed. I'm too tired for this."

"Fine," Wilson shot back, standing from the couch. "So am I."

House nodded towards the empty pizza box and dirty plates. "Clean that up before you go."

Wilson's hands found their way to his hips, exasperated. "_You_ clean it up."

"I'm crippled."

"And I'm dying."

"We're all dying!" House tossed his cane to the floor and threw his arm over his eyes. "I need a Vicodin."

"Knew you would," Wilson muttered, and slammed the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 5_

"House?" Wilson whispered. He tentatively poked the diagnostician, who groaned and rolled over on the couch. "You awake?"

"No," House mumbled.

"I can't sleep."

"Don't care."

Wilson opted to wait in the quiet, his eyes already adjusted to the dark from lying awake until 2am. He'd wiggled into a semi-comfortable position between the couch and the coffee table, surprised that House had actually cleaned up the remains of their dinner. His legs drawn to his chest, he patiently rested his chin on his knees until House finally heaved a heavy sigh, turning back over to face him.

"What do you want?" he mumbled tiredly.

Wilson shrugged. "Nothing."

"So why are you _here_?"

"Told you. Can't sleep."

House yawned, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Why not?"

"Hurts," Wilson replied quietly, his voice so distant that he may as well have been talking about the time or the weather.

Instantly, House was alert, the old blanket draped over him flown back over the couch. "How bad?"

"It's fine," Wilson assured him quickly. "It's nothing new. I just…could use some company."

House held his gaze for a while, as if measuring Wilson's actual pain level through his eyes. Finally, he shifted into a sitting position and eased himself onto the floor beside him, pushing the table away with his good foot.

"Okay," he said simply.

Together, they stretched their legs along the carpet, House absently rubbing his thigh. Wilson eyed him sympathetically. "I'm sorry," he said.

House shrugged. "Sleep is overrated."

"I mean…about before. I didn't…I said some things I didn't mean." Without waiting for House's inevitable sarcastic retort to signal that the apology was accepted, Wilson gestured towards the empty coffee table. "You cleaned up," he said. "I'm impressed."

"Figured only one of us in here could handle the smell."

"Good point." Grimacing suddenly, Wilson closed his eyes, his head leaning back into the sofa cushions behind him.

House frowned. "What pain meds are you on?"

"None."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not that bad." Wilson opened his eyes again to meet his gaze. "Really."

"Your ass isn't blue, it's a fucking rainbow."

Wilson snorted, his amusement followed by another groan of pain. House rolled his eyes and dug his hand into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.

"Here," he said, opening the pill bottle.

Wilson eyed the Vicodin and shook his head. "No, thanks."

"You're in pain, you moron."

"Don't need it."

House grabbed Wilson's hand and emptied a pill into his palm. "Just one isn't going to make you an addict."

"Says you," Wilson mumbled, but after a few moments of staring at the white sliver of relief, he reluctantly gulped it down and leaned back again with a sigh.

"Better?"

"Mmm."

House pocketed the pills again. "This isn't going to cut it, you know," he said.

"I know you normally like to down about twelve at a time, but one Vicodin can be surprisingly effective."

"It's just going to get worse. Your body is going to go to hell and my leg can't handle wiping your ass for you."

"At least you'll get to see what color it really is," Wilson joked, but his smile faded at the sight of House's glare. "I know," he said quietly.

"You gotta tell me what you want."

"Whatever you think is best."

"Which would be…?"

"I don't know, House. But legally, you can do whatever the hell you want with me."

House blinked. "I'm still your medical proxy?"

"Of course." Wilson rolled onto his side, becoming more comfortable as the pain subsided. "Am I still yours?"

"Yeah."

"So why are you so surprised?"

House shrugged. "Thought you would've replaced me with Amber by now."

"Never did," Wilson murmured.

"Cuddy never knew," House admitted. "I lied."

"You and I both." Wilson smiled a little, sighing contentedly. "I could just sleep like this, right here."

"'Bout time," House muttered.

"You should take your bed tonight. I'll stay here."

"Forget it."

"Or we could both sleep out here," Wilson suggested.

"Fine. Good night." House closed his eyes, burrowing into a more comfortable position, when suddenly he felt something resting on his shoulder and opened them again. Wilson had shifted over and was leaning against House's side, gracing his line of sight with a floppy mop of brown hair.

"Seriously, Wilson?"

"I needed a pillow," Wilson mumbled into his sleeve.

"So go back to bed."

"Can't. Tired."

"Exactly why you should be going back to _bed_."

Wilson sniffled sleepily in response, and House rolled his eyes. "Jesus. I would've let you sit there in agony if I'd known the Vicodin would make you this stupid."

"Not stupid. Just tired. G'nite, House."

House raised his free hand, poised to nudge his intruder away, but on second thought he lowered it again, letting his head fall gently on top of Wilson's as they drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	6. Chapter 6

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 6_

House woke to the uncomfortable sound of retching.

Forcing himself up off the floor and following his ears, he opened the bathroom door to find a shivering Wilson huddled over the toilet.

"Shit," he muttered, turning around and limping over to the kitchen. "Don't move."

"Don't think I'll be going anywhere," Wilson managed shakily, before heaving again.

House returned with a glass of water, his cane foregone somewhere against the kitchen counter. He knelt painfully beside Wilson, setting the glass on the floor as he found a more comfortable position to stretch out his leg.

"Could just be a side effect of the Vicodin," he tried.

"I doubt it." Wilson closed his eyes, resting his forehead in his hands with his elbows propped up on the toilet seat. "Sorry if I woke you."

"Saved us an awkward morning, anyway."

Wilson snorted softly. "Right. That."

"Don't tell me that's the reason you're puking."

"It would certainly beat the alternative." Wilson groaned, leaning his head more heavily in his palms. "I think I'm gonna be here for a while."

"I got time," House shrugged. He immediately leaned forward as Wilson heaved again, his hand landing gently on Wilson's back. A few rounds of vomiting later, Wilson rinsed the vile taste out of his mouth and scooted over to lean against the wall with House.

"Thanks," he said hoarsely, his eyes still closed as he fought off the last of the lingering nausea.

"You've done the same for me."

"Could we…be awkward again? Just for a minute?"

House didn't respond, and Wilson's head drifted back onto his shoulder.

"Thanks," Wilson murmured again.

"Quit thanking me." House sighed, letting his own head fall back against the wall. "We need a plan."

"For?"

"For world domination. For _you_, genius. There's going to come a point when – "

"I know, I know. Just…not right now. Later, House. Okay?"

House glanced down at Wilson, watching him curl into a tighter ball on the floor as his head burrowed more deeply into House's shoulder.

"Okay," he replied quietly, and let Wilson sleep.

* * *

><p>House woke to unusual sound of pots clanging.<p>

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he let his foggy mind remind itself why it was he'd been sitting on the bathroom floor before getting to his feet and heading to the kitchen.

"Hey," Wilson called over his shoulder with a smile. He was wearing House's apron by the stove, stirring something or other in a pot with one hand as he tossed House's cane to him with the other. "You're up."

"You're cooking."

"I'm feeling better," Wilson shrugged. "Figured I'd make us something to eat."

"Uh huh." House glanced disbelievingly around the kitchen. "You found edible food in here?"

"Not really. But you work with what you can." Two pieces of toast popped up in the toaster, and Wilson turned the stove down. "Soup and toast okay with you?"

"Fine."

A few minutes later, they were settled on the couch with their meal. Wilson set his food on the coffee table and cleared his throat.

"So I've been thinking about what you said," he began. "About having a plan."

House took a steaming spoonful of chicken noodle, cautiously blowing on the liquid before bringing it to his lips. "And?"

"And…I think I should leave."

The hot soup burned House's tongue. "What do you mean?"

"I can find a hospice facility, you know, and check in there when the time comes. Maybe stay with my parents for a bit until then."

"You hate your parents."

"No, _you _hate _your _parents," Wilson corrected him. "I haven't seen them in years, and…it might be nice."

"Or it might suck." House frowned, setting his bowl down. "Why do you want to leave?"

"Don't say it like that. I don't _want _to leave. But this was never my intention; I never meant for you to have to drop your whole life for me. You left work, you – "

"I didn't quit. It's called a leave of absence. I'm living the dream, hanging around here and sleeping all day." House held Wilson's gaze, his frown deepening as the gears in his brain churned. "You don't think I can handle it," he said.

"You said yourself that you can't," Wilson reminded him gently.

"I meant I can't handle it _physically. _Maybe I'd need a nurse to help me get your ass to the toilet, but that's not what you care about. You don't think I can handle it _emotionally_."

"I didn't say that."

"But you're thinking it."

"Well…" Wilson sighed, admitting defeat. "Can you really blame me?"

"What haven't I already done that you want me to do?" House asked angrily, pushing himself off the couch and turning on Wilson.

"House," Wilson said, slowly standing with him, "you couldn't even be there for Cuddy without losing it. How can anyone expect you to – "

"I told you," House reminded him bitterly. "I didn't love her."

"You said you didn't _think _you loved her."

"And now I'm telling you I _know _I didn't."

Wilson pinched his temple, exasperated, his other hand gripping his hip. "This isn't about Cuddy, House. All I'm saying is…you shouldn't have to deal with me when things get worse. I don't _want _you to have to deal with me. Coming back has been great, but let's just leave it at that. Okay? I'll give my parents a call and leave tomorrow."

"I _want _to deal with you," House retorted.

"Yeah, I'm sure watching me puke my guts out and sleeping on the bathroom floor has been your idea of a good time."

"And did you ever see me take a Vicodin for it?"

"Right – I didn't _see _you take one, so it _must _be that you didn't." Wilson sighed, his eyes pleading. "Stop bringing up Cuddy, okay? I'm sorry I did."

"You know what? You're right," House said hotly. "I did love Cuddy. I loved her the same way you loved Amber."

"Oh, Jesus – "

"Love 'em and leave 'em as soon as the next needy chick comes along. No surprises there."

"House!" Wilson fumed. "This has _nothing _to do with Cuddy and Amber. This is about you and me, and no one else."

"Really? So you're not noticing a pattern here?"

"What pattern?"

"You left your wives, you left me, you left Amber – oh, and you left the post-Amber chick – and now you're leaving me again. Just another typical day in the life of James E. Wilson," House finished sarcastically.

"Oh, like you even gave a shit when I left. _You _stopped picking up your phone! _You're _the one who gave up, just like you gave up on Cuddy!"

"And if I give up on you now again, are you going to hold it against me, _again_?"

"Stop it, just _stop_," Wilson said, his voice shaking. "I'm leaving tomorrow and that's all there is to it. End of discussion."

"What haven't I done for you that you've needed?" House demanded.

"Nothing. House – "

"So what is it that you _want_?" House was shouting now, moving closer, piercing blue eyes matching Wilson's burning brown. "You call me after five fucking years and tell me that you're _dying_, and then you turn around and – "

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'm – "

" – and you tell me that you're leaving, _again_. So do me a favor, Wilson, and tell me what the hell it is you want that I'm not giving you."

"House – "

"Wilson. What. do. you. _want_?"

And Wilson told him.

* * *

><p><em>The coffee table screeches across the hardwood and the cane clatters to the floor. The wall is hard against House's back and Wilson is hard against him, and he can't tell whose tongue is whose and neither of them can breathe.<em>

_House tries to talk but Wilson cuts him off with another kiss, another moan, an unexpected hand on his crotch and House gasps. His mind is a blur and it's ohmygod and then they're fumbling to the bedroom, fingers sliding across skin as they undo buttons and zippers, and it's no longer a question of want but a question of need. And suddenly they're naked and Wilson is above him, breathing hard, and House barely realizes how quickly he moves in to kiss him again, their eyes closing against the last remaining doubts of the moment._

_His last coherent thought is that it's the first time he won't have to wake up from this dream._

* * *

><p>House woke to the steady sound of Wilson's breathing.<p>

His arm was wrapped tightly around Wilson's shoulders, Wilson's head resting gently on his chest, and he smiled to himself. Wilson would make them talk about it later, he knew, but for now – this was perfect.

Except for the fact that it wasn't.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	7. Chapter 7

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 7_

They took turns in the bath, House quietly leaving the bed first as soon as Wilson woke. He didn't need the inevitable talking just yet, and even watching Wilson sleep had been an unwelcome reminder of what the upcoming weeks would bring.

The bed was made when he returned, the blankets straightened and the pillows fluffed and the bottle of lube evidently stored away in its drawer. As Wilson bathed, House changed into his pajamas and stretched out across the comforter, casually resting his hands behind his head. The smell of his shampoo and soap trailed behind Wilson, who had only a towel wrapped around his waist as re-entered the bedroom.

House smirked from the bed. "I think we're past the point of decency here."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but he smiled and didn't bother to cover himself up as he pulled his own pajamas out from his suitcase in the corner. When he was ready, he sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, holding House's gaze.

"So," he said.

"So."

Wilson cleared his throat, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "We should probably…talk."

"Or we could go for round two," House suggested. Wilson glared at him and he sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position against the pillows. "So talk."

Wilson inched closer to sit across from him. "Last night was…it was great, House. Really, really great."

"Really, really, _really _great," House agreed. He watched as Wilson's finger began to trace the scar along his leg, not completely surprised when he eventually pulled away.

"But we can't."

He didn't have to be a world-renowned diagnostician to know why, but he wasn't ready to give up on Wilson just yet. Not this time. "Don't be such a drama queen."

Wilson shook his head. "I think I've hurt you enough," he murmured, and House frowned.

"That's my line, not yours."

"I left you." The pain in Wilson's eyes was making House's leg burn, and he gripped the sheets to avoid reaching for the Vicodin bottle on the nightstand. "I thought Amber was my only shot, and after all you did for her – for me – I _left _you. And I'm going to leave again, House, and this time I won't be coming back."

House nodded. "I know."

"We shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have pushed you."

"Hey," House countered. "You think I didn't want to? You didn't push me. Twenty-five years of _waiting_ pushed me." He dipped his head a little, forcing Wilson to hold his gaze. "You're seriously going to tell me that you wish last night hadn't happened?"

"Of course not. But – "

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're dying."

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. The point is that if you leave now, it won't be because you didn't have a choice."

Wilson paused, and House assumed he was considering this last statement when suddenly Wilson was leaning in to kiss him.

"Jesus," he muttered, eyes wide as they finally pulled away. "If I'd known you were this good, there's no way I would've let you get away with twenty-five years."

Wilson smirked, but his expression grew serious. "I need you to be sure about this, House."

"Sorry. I might need you to kiss me again before I make any big decisions."

"I mean it. Things might be good for now, but a few weeks down the road, they won't be."

House refused to flinch. "I know. And I'm sure."

Relieved, Wilson scooted closer as House patted the empty space beside him on the bed. "Can you imagine if it had just been you after Sam?" he murmured, lying back into the pillows and turning onto his side to face House. "No Bonnie, no Julie…no Amber."

"Don't forget about that dying cancer chick…wow, that's ironic."

"We would've had twenty-five years." Wilson grimaced, and House eyed him worriedly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I just…it always should've been you."

House reverted his gaze back to the opposite wall. "We were both idiots."

"Amber made me feel closer to you."

"Your Amber was my Cuddy."

Wilson furrowed his brow, trying to understand. "You thought…she was like me?"

"No," House replied quietly. "She just made me think of you when you were gone."

Wilson let his eyes drift to House's hand on his thigh. Careful not to disturb the bed too much, he reached across his shoulder to grab the Vicodin bottle from the nightstand.

House glanced over and shook his head. "No."

"You need it. You've gotta be in pain."

"I said no."

"Just one isn't going to make you an addict," Wilson tried, but at the lack of amusement in House's eyes, he took his hand and emptied a few pills into his palm. "No one said you had to detox on my account," he said gently. "It doesn't mean you don't care."

House didn't respond, and Wilson returned the bottle to its place, out of sight. "I don't want you to feel bad about the Vicodin, House."

"You used to give me hell for being an addict. Now it turns you on?"

"You _know_ I hope you'll find it in yourself to get clean again one day. But I'm certainly not going to dump you for it now."

House's eyes darkened at the memory. "I needed it for Cuddy," he said stiffly. "I don't need it for you."

"Needing it just to _be _there for her wasn't the same as needing it for your normal, physical pain," Wilson reminded him patiently. "I think Cuddy knew that."

"Yeah." House continued to stare at the pills, but at length he emptied them into his mouth and gulped them down, finally relaxing his grip on his thigh.

"Better?" Wilson asked.

House nodded, and Wilson pushed himself up with a smile. "Good. Now come on – I know you're hungry."

* * *

><p>They drove to a diner for breakfast, ordering oatmeal for Wilson and pancakes with all the trimmings for House. At about 10:30am, they'd missed the morning bustle before work but were too early for the lunchtime crowd, and their booth in the back corner provided a comfortable level of privacy.<p>

House poured syrup onto everything on his plate and dug his fork into his food. "No hospice," he said firmly, not bothering with usual conversation openers.

Wilson shrugged, knowing better than to be surprised by House's bluntness. "It might be easier if – "

"I _said_ no hospice," House repeated, painfully swallowing a large triple-stacked bite of pancakes. "We can get a nurse, but you're not going anywhere."

Wilson smiled a little, gingerly pouring a small helping of honey into his bowl. "I'm sure Nurse Jeffrey would be up for it. Is he still around?"

"God, Wilson. If you wanted to have a threesome, at least pick someone hot like Chase."

"How _is _your team doing, by the way?"

"Hell if I know."

Wilson shook his head with a smirk. "If you don't call Foreman, Cuddy's going to barge in again."

"And we may or may not be clothed."

"Exactly."

"Which she might actually enjoy," House mused.

Wilson ignored him, taking a bite of his breakfast. "Are you going to tell her?"

"About what?"

"About…me. About us."

"That you're dying and we're fucking? Probably not."

"She'll have to know at some point. About the first part, anyway."

House shrugged. "What about your parents?"

"What about them?"

"You said you wanted to see them."

"That was when I was…you know."

"Trying not to be swayed by my irresistible charm? Yeah. But you could still see them. If you want."

Wilson nodded. "I think that might be nice."

"Could call Stacy, too. Get a will drawn up, the works."

"You're really harping on this death thing, aren't you?"

House shrugged, swirling his last piece of bacon in a stray pool of maple syrup. "You're the one who goes into panic mode when you're not prepared. Just thinking of _you _here."

"House, this is all very…_thoughtful_ of you. But we'll get to all of that, okay? Can we just eat our breakfast in peace and enjoy ourselves?"

"Speak for yourself," House retorted, nodding towards Wilson's nearly-full bowl.

"I ate," Wilson replied lamely.

"Blue ass."

"_Yellow _ass," Wilson corrected him playfully, and House fought back a smile.

"Don't be such a jerk."

"Speak for yourself," Wilson shrugged, shoveling a steaming spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. "And don't even think about stealing any of this, either."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 8_

* * *

><p><em>He dreams of House in the bed, machines whirring in the quiet and tubes slithering across the darkness. A whisper slices through the still air, cutting into his skin, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's coming from his own lips.<em>

"_I'm leaving."_

_House struggles to sit up further and Wilson cringes at his pain, pain that he caused for the sake of another whom he's not even sure is worth it._

"_What do you mean?"_

_Strings of words leave his mouth and form a reply before he can even think. Something about Amber responding to treatment, and wanting to get away. Something about moving. _

"_So take a vacation," House says carefully. "How long? A week? Two?"_

"_It's not a vacation, House. We're _moving_. Permanently."_

_It's the same dream every time – the way House's eyes grow dark with the deep blue of stormy ocean waves, the way the bed inches closer and closer as it threatens to push Wilson through the glass, the way the room begins to spin until suddenly House is standing before him, and it's Wilson in the hospital bed._

"_I'm leaving," House says._

_Wilson nods at him sadly. "I'm leaving, too."_

"Wilson. Wilson, snap out of it. Wilson!"

Wilson opened his eyes, gasping, brown eyes searching frantically for the blue. "House – "

"Get a hold of yourself. I'm right here." House's hand came up to gently move his hair back, not seeming to mind the sweat dripping from his bangs. "Same dream?"

"Yeah," Wilson whispered hoarsely. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose to steady himself. "Sorry."

"It's been a week of this. You've gotta get a grip."

"I know."

"It's also been a week of mind-blowing sex," House mused. "And given that the nightmares started around the same time…"

"Don't. It's not funny. You're lucky I've been able to last this long as it is."

"Now _that's _not funny." House sighed, waiting for Wilson to calm down and open his eyes again before he continued. "I'm not leaving, you know," he said.

"I know, House."

"But I don't think that's what's making you lose your mind every night."

"Right. One stint in crazytown and suddenly you're an expert."

"I think you're afraid of dying."

"And why shouldn't I be?" Wilson countered wearily.

"I never said you shouldn't be," House pointed out. "I just said that you are so that you'll finally admit it to yourself."

Wilson cringed, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Sick because you're nauseous or sick because you hate yourself for being human and afraid of the unknown?"

"The former, thanks. But I'm not denying the latter."

House grabbed the garbage bin from the floor, setting it in Wilson's lap just in time. "You need _real _pain meds, Wilson, not the random crap you've been downing from my stash."

"You just want to keep the Vicodin all to yourself," Wilson managed as he finished heaving.

House sighed, taking the garbage bin and getting out of bed to empty it. "What do you have against a lousy antiemetic?" he called back as he limped out of the room.

"Don't need it."

"God, would you listen to yourself? All you do is screw me and vomit afterwards."

"Maybe it's _you_, then."

"Yeah," House scoffed, returning and climbing back into bed. "That's why you're practically begging for it every night."

"Hey! I do _not_ beg, and you want it just as much as I do," Wilson retorted.

"I also want you not to be in pain."

"Yeah, well, that's going to be a little difficult under the circumstances."

"It'd be easier if you took some damn pills." House grabbed the Vicodin bottle from the nightstand, taking a couple for himself and shaking the rest in Wilson's face. "If you're so gung ho about _my _addiction, I'm pretty sure terminal cancer beats bum leg."

Wilson shrugged, rolling his eyes to the ceiling to avoid House's bait. "I can wait it out."

House frowned, studying him. "You still feel guilty, don't you," he finally accused.

"What?"

"That's why you won't take any meds. You think you actually _deserve _the pain."

"House, don't be ridiculous."

"Or maybe it's that combined with the fact that you used to be an oncologist," House mused.

"So what?"

"_So, _you served up death sentences like you served up margaritas. You watched people go through hell day in and day out, and now you think karma has a right to bite you in the ass."

Wilson didn't answer, and House gently poked him in the ribs.

"I'm usually right," he reminded him. "It's kind of a thing with me."

Wilson rolled over with a heavy sigh, finding a comfortable crook in House's arm to lay his head. "It isn't just all of that," he admitted. "I shouldn't be so afraid."

"You're human, Wilson, not Superman."

"I treated terminal ten-year-olds who were braver than me. I'm pathetic. And I was fine when I was first diagnosed, but then I came back here, and now…"

Wilson's voice trailed away, and House nuzzled closer to him. "Maybe that's the difference between you and the superhero kids," he murmured. "Because life's a bitch and let you see exactly what you'd be missing."

A grimace suddenly crossed Wilson's face, and House's free hand instinctively went to Wilson's stomach.

"How bad?"

"It's…tolerable."

House gently examined the area, frowning, and then laid a hand on his forehead. "You're distended _and_ feverish – probably those stupid dreams. You can't go on like this. We can drive to the hospital right now and – "

"House. Stop. We'll go to Princeton General and take care of it tomorrow, okay? Let's just…sleep. Please."

"Fine. But there's no way in hell you're going to that garbage dump."

"It's not a garbage dump; it's a good hospital."

"Yeah, that must be why everyone's always scrambling for an appointment at Princeton-Plainsboro instead."

"You know _exactly_ why I can't go there, House."

"Well, maybe it's time to tell Cuddy," House shrugged.

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Why not? She keeps asking about you, anyway."

"Well…okay. If you're sure."

"It's your secret, not mine."

"And she's _your _ex-girlfriend, not mine."

"Wilson," House sighed, "if that's the only reason why you haven't told her, then you seriously need to get a grip and realize that I _really _don't give a crap."

"I know, I know. But I've done enough damage by coming back as it is, and I don't want to – "

"Bring that up one more time and see if I don't kill you myself." House reached over to the newer cluster of pills by the Vicodin, picking out one of the bottles and the cup of water he'd learned to have handy at night. "Here," he said. "Take some Tylenol for the fever and get some sleep."

Wilson did as he was told, burrowing further under the covers. "So," he murmured tiredly. "Tomorrow. Cuddy."

"Yeah. And we'll call your parents, and whoever else you want. Stacy, too, for the legal stuff."

"Like we talked about last week?"

House tucked the blankets around him and drew him closer. "Exactly like that."

"Okay."

Nodding in agreement, House kissed his forehead and closed his own eyes to sleep. "Okay."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	9. Chapter 9

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 9_

They called Wilson's parents in the morning – or rather, House did. Wilson hadn't wanted to shock them as soon as they picked up the phone. House was all too willing to hand over the cell as soon as he thought the Wilsons could handle it, limping out of the bedroom so he wouldn't have to hear the conversation.

"Mom says thank you," Wilson said quietly when he was done, joining him in the living room.

"I know. She told me already."

"I offered to go over tomorrow, but they wanted to come out here themselves. Mom didn't want me making the drive."

"I would've driven you."

"I know you would've, House. But…you know how parents are. Even when you're my age, they still think you're twelve."

"Guess I'll have to take your word for it." House cocked his head towards the doorway, cane in hand. "Now come on – it's Cuddy time."

* * *

><p>The light jacket and long jeans that Wilson chose even in the heat complemented the cap he pulled over his head and the shades that eclipsed his eyes. They parked close to the hospital, moving as fast as House's leg would allow. If anyone recognized Wilson, no one said a word.<p>

He removed his hat and sunglasses as they entered Cuddy's office, the dean's eyes widening at their sudden intrusion. "I'll have to call you back," she said into the phone, hanging up with a disapproving glare. "Why do I have a feeling that neither of you are here to work? And what the hell are you wearing?" she added, glancing up and down Wilson's attire.

Wilson stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. "I just figured…you know, with the air conditioning – "

"He needs his liver drained," House interrupted.

"You guys been drinking too much lately?" Cuddy replied flatly, unamused.

"You think I'd let him drink in his condition? Why Cuddy, how little you think of me."

Wilson's eyes rolled up to the ceiling in exasperation as Cuddy's own narrowed in annoyance. "This isn't _quite_ how I'd imagined this going," he muttered.

House tapped his cane impatiently. "I'm sure you can fit in an appointment for your ex-Head of Oncology. Say, now-o-clock?"

"House, what the hell – "

"Cuddy…" Wilson sighed, running a hand through his hair and easing himself down onto the couch. "I know House is being a totally unhelpful ass, but he's right. I could use your help."

Cuddy's frown softened as she gauged Wilson's expression. "What's going on?" she asked.

Wilson forced himself to meet her gaze. "I was diagnosed with liver cancer," he replied quietly. "Secondary, stage four. I came home to ride it out."

Silence followed. Cuddy opened her mouth as if to speak, only to close it again as her eyes glimmered with concern.

Eventually, she composed herself. "How long?" she finally asked.

"Not long," Wilson admitted. "But if there are any favors you can pull for me, I'd – "

"Of course," Cuddy assured him. She stood from her desk, making her way to Wilson to sit beside him. Her hand fell gently on his shoulder, her expression sad but professionally firm. "We'll do whatever we can."

"I want everything done under a false name, by the team only," House interrupted quietly. "Jenkins can consult if he keeps his mouth shut."

"I can assure you that Jenkins is discrete," Cuddy replied, but her tone had lost all traces of sternness. She turned back to Wilson. "I'm so sorry, James."

He managed a smile for her. "Thank you."

She squeezed his shoulder and pushed herself off the couch. "I can call Jenkins and the team right now and brief them," she said, keeping her eyes on her skirt as she smoothed it out. "If you're distended, we should get you in today."

"We're not staying to watch them go all Cameron on him," House said. "Tell them to come up to my office when they're done crying over Boy Wonder here."

Cuddy watched as House helped Wilson up, not missing the way that their hands lingered together. She moved to stand beside him as Wilson finally disentangled his fingers and made his way to the door first.

"Were you always…?" Her whispered question trailed away, and House turned briefly to look at her.

"I think you know," he murmured quietly, and followed Wilson out of the office.

* * *

><p>They rode the elevator up together, ignoring the stares from the two nurses who looked at them curiously. Wilson's departure had been a taboo subject that no one spoke of publicly, especially to House, and while they probably recognized him behind the sunglasses and hat that he'd replaced, neither said a word. Once safe in House's office, House moved his desk chair to the armchair by the door, and they waited in the quiet.<p>

Foreman and Jenkins eventually arrived, both making a clear effort to remain cautiously professional. Foreman kept his focus on the wheelchair he'd been pushing, while Jenkins' eyes were drawn to the famous Head of Oncology whom he'd replaced. House glared at them both, a warning well-understood.

"Dr. House," Jenkins greeted at last, before turning back to Wilson. "And Dr. Wilson – it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Rob Jenkins, Oncology. I've heard nothing but the highest praise of your work here."

Wilson forced a smile. "The pleasure's all mine."

"Yes. Well." Jenkins nervously cleared his throat, glancing towards Foreman in the corner. "You remember Dr. Foreman, I'm sure."

"Of course." Wilson nodded towards the leader of House's team. "Dr. Foreman."

"Dr. Wilson," Foreman nodded back.

"Dr. Foreman will run you down for some testing, and we can take it from there," Jenkins said. "Sound good?"

"Sure," Wilson agreed, and Jenkins smiled cheerfully.

"Right, then. I'll see you shortly, Dr. Wilson."

Foreman glanced apologetically at Wilson as Jenkins left the office. "Sorry about Jenkins. He's…it's been hard for him to take your place."

"That's because he's an idiot," House scoffed.

"We've missed you here," Foreman agreed, taking Wilson's arm as he helped him into the wheelchair. "You okay?"

"Fine," Wilson said. He glanced up at House, managing a small smile. "You should stay here. Play some poker, watch some porn. I'll be fine."

House frowned. "If you think I'm – "

"House, it's just going to be some unnecessary testing that we both know the outcome of, and I don't you need you there just for a lousy paracentesis. Foreman will keep you informed – won't you, Foreman?"

"Pretty sure he'll kill me if I don't," Foreman reminded him.

House sighed. "Fine," he consented, and returned his glare to Foreman. "I want you observing when Chase does the paracentesis."

Foreman nodded, gripping the wheelchair handlebars as House reluctantly opened the door for them. By choice, the cap and shades remained in the office, and Wilson ignored the inevitable stares and whispering that followed.

He turned back to face Foreman as they moved towards the elevator. "I thought Thirteen was still here," he remarked.

"She is."

"Is she off today?"

"She usually comes to work, but just as another mind on the team. No procedures."

"Why not?"

The wheelchair came to a stop as they reached the elevator. "Shaky hands," Foreman explained quietly, and pushed the elevator button.

* * *

><p>House crossed his arms as he sat across from Jenkins, his eyes already having swept across the x-rays and test results on the desk in front of him. He'd hopped over the balcony border upon receiving Jenkins' call, knowing how much it would annoy him, and he hadn't needed long to draw the necessary conclusions from the exams.<p>

True to his habit, Jenkins nervously cleared his throat. "As you can see, Dr. House," he began, but House cut him off.

"I don't need your stupid speech about how soon he's going to drop off," he muttered. "And Wilson doesn't need it, either."

Jenkins nodded, allowing only a slight twitch to show that he still wasn't completely used to House's demeanor. "Chase and Foreman are performing the paracentesis now," he said instead. "He'll have to have regular appointments to get the fluid drained."

"He needs pain meds," House added, surprised as Jenkins picked up a small stack of already-written prescriptions from his desk.

"He told your team that he wasn't taking anything, and he didn't _want _anything. But when he's ready, you can give him these. I included a diuretic in there, too, if you can get him to take it." Jenkins handed him the prescriptions and leaned back in his chair. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Dr. House?"

House looked up from the slips of paper gripped tightly in his hand. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Of course."

"Since you're in the business of dying…I need a recommendation."

"What kind of recommendation?"

"For palliative care. Got a name you can give me?"

"Do you intend to keep Dr. Wilson at home?"

House nodded, and Jenkins cleared his throat.

"Well, Dr. House…I do have an idea for you. Let's call Dr. Cuddy to join us, shall we?"

* * *

><p>Foreman returned a tired-looking Wilson to House's office, with Chase following close behind to help ward off gossipers. House was already back, pretending to be watching a monster truck rally rather than still fuming over the intern and three nurses who hadn't had the brains not to approach him on Wilson's return.<p>

"How'd it go?" House asked, turning off the television.

"Good." Wilson glanced up at the doctors beside him. "Thanks, guys."

"Anytime, man," Foreman replied, clapping Wilson's shoulder as Chase gave a nod of agreement.

House rolled over to them on his wheeled desk chair. "I talked to Jenkins and Cuddy – looks like we can get some hospital equipment at home."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, instead of relying on some sleazy home care people, we get the good stuff."

Wilson frowned. "How can Cuddy possibly afford to do that?"

"We found a way," House replied breezily. "And these two lucky ducks get to take turns being your slave – not that that's anything new for the black one over there."

"It's the least we can do," Chase said quickly, as Wilson raised his eyebrows at them. "We'd much prefer to help out than to put you in the hands of a stranger."

"And he also knows that I'll make his life hell if he doesn't," House added happily.

"I don't know what to say," Wilson murmured. "Thank you."

"Let's just get you home to rest," Foreman said. "You ready?"

They wheeled Wilson out to the parking lot and helped him into the passenger's seat. Once home, he parked himself on the couch, carefully lying down to avoid the bandaged wound on his abdomen.

"House?"

House limped back from the kitchen, a glass of water for Wilson in one hand a beer for himself in the other. "Yeah?"

"How did you get Cuddy to pull that off?"

House sighed, setting the drinks down on the coffee table. Gently, he squeezed his way onto the couch between Wilson and the armrest, allowing Wilson's head to rest on his good leg. "It was Jenkins' idea. Guess he's not a complete idiot."

"He suggested that the hospital provide home care?"

"Called Cuddy up, got her approval, the works. She called Foreman and Chase out during the procedure to talk to them."

"I remember them stepping out." Wilson frowned, thinking. "House…you didn't forgo your salary, did you?"

House didn't answer, and Wilson groaned in disapproval.

"House! That is completely unnecessary – "

"So it's a little extra," House retorted. "It's not a _total _pay cut, and the team still gets paid as usual. What's that stupid motto you always live by? Better safe than sorry?"

"There are plenty of good home care companies out there, House."

"Yeah, with ex-hookers-turned-nurses who can't tell the difference between a syringe and a dildo." House opened his beer and took a drink, smacking his lips. "You're better off with the power-hungry African who's bored at the hospital and the good-looking Australian who's still too scared to cross me."

"I just don't think it's worth – "

"Actually, Wilson, it is – so shut up."

Wilson sighed. "You also didn't tell me about Thirteen."

"She's still on the team," House shrugged. "She's not a total goner yet."

"Except for her diminishing control over her body. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it was never relevant."

"Did you leave it out because she was dying? Because you didn't think I'd want to know?"

House didn't answer, and at length he simply leaned his head back and absently began to run his fingers through Wilson's hair. "Your parents still coming tomorrow?"

Reluctantly accepting that the previous conversation was over, Wilson nestled further into House's body. "As far as I know."

"Good. I'll give Stacy a ring…see if she can get over here this weekend."

Wilson nodded, finally settling into a comfortable position as the exhaustion from the day began to catch up with him. "I think I might…close my eyes. Just for a little while."

Responding with a kiss on his forehead, House reached over his shoulder to turn off the living room lamp as Wilson's head dipped in sleep.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	10. Chapter 10

_Posion and Wine_

_Chapter 10_

* * *

><p>For a late summer afternoon, the lake wasn't terribly busy. From the bench where he'd parked himself, House could easily make out Wilson and his parents among the usual duck-feeders and nature-joggers, watching them walk slowly around the edge of the water. Wilson had taken his place in the middle, his mother's hand nestled in his arm while his father's hands remained in his pockets, his head down.<p>

It had been Wilson's idea to meet his parents here, claiming the benefits of sunshine and fresh air. House had simply nodded, not up for an argument about Wilson probably not wanting his parents to remember House's apartment – to realize that _this _was where their son would spend his dying days. They'd whisk him away, back to their perfect _Leave it to Beaver _house in the suburbs; they'd explain that for all that House had done, it wasn't enough.

No one had protested when House had insisted on letting them walk ahead – Wilson assuming his usual anti-social tendencies, and Wilson's parents assuming his leg. Maybe it had been a little of both, but he also hadn't mentioned the phone call he'd received that morning while Wilson had still been asleep.

When his afternoon appointment arrived, she sat daintily down on the bench beside him, accepting his brief nod of acknowledgement.

"I don't have a lot of time," she began, not unkindly.

"You're the one who called."

Cuddy gazed out across the rounded path, her eyes eventually resting where House's rested. "He looks good. The paracentesis went well."

"Finally got him to take some pills this morning," House shrugged.

She glanced back at him worriedly. "It got that bad?"

"It's already been that bad. But I told him it would make it easier on _me _if he took the meds."

She nodded, her expression sad. "Everyone's talking about him, you know. Word gets around fast in that place."

"If there's something you want to say," House deflected coolly, "just say it."

Cuddy shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, ignoring House's seeming indifference at her discomfort. Finally prepared, she met his gaze and said, "I wanted to talk about you and Wilson."

"That's why you came? For the lowdown on your gay doctor buds?" Before she could protest, House held up his hand and continued, "Fine – pay attention. Sex: unbe_liev_ably good. Ex-Mrs. Wilsons were clearly morons. Little Jimmy: can't beat little Greg, but is by no means little. Am I going too fast?"

"God, House, you're _impossible_." Cuddy shuddered and shook her head, flustered. "I didn't want _details._"

"Oops," House said innocently. "If I've scarred you enough, feel free to go."

"Nice try. Look, I just wanted to know if…while we were together…"

"No." House looked away at the lake, stoic. "Unless you count mere thoughts as cheating, in which case…all faithful relationships are just fantasies."

"I wouldn't be mad if – "

"Of _course _you'd be mad," House countered, forcefully meeting her gaze again. "Not that I care."

"House, I forgave you for driving your car through my wall," Cuddy reminded him, equally firm. "How could I be mad at you for _this_, after all this time?"

"This is different," House replied quietly. "Besides, Wilson wasn't even here when I was with you."

"I thought maybe you two would've lied about that, but…" Cuddy sighed, defeated. "I guess it doesn't matter."

House eyed her carefully. "No," he agreed. "It doesn't matter. But congratulations – you've still solved the case."

Cuddy opened her mouth as if to argue, but at length she simply nodded in a grim acceptance. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "You know I'm happy for you both. You just…caught me a little off guard yesterday, cancer aside." She shifted again in her seat, this time allowing herself to relax. "I'm a woman. A woman's allowed to go a little crazy when her ex-boyfriend tells her he's gay."

"Gay for Wilson, specifically," he corrected her. "Doesn't mean your ass is any less heart-shaped or your boobs are any less glorious."

Cuddy smirked, despite rolling her eyes. "Anyway," she said, "I also wanted to see how he was doing. And he looks okay."

"He looks like there are tumors ravaging his insides and he hasn't eaten anything in years, but I guess all things considered..." He let his voice trail away, his sarcasm leaving with it, and he glanced sideways at her again. "He wanted me to thank you."

"I wish I could do more," Cuddy murmured.

"I wish Wilson wasn't dying," House shrugged.

"You're doing everything you can."

"So are you."

She glanced at him sympathetically. "I'm so sorry, House."

He didn't answer, nor did he so much as flinch at the peck of her lips against his cheek as she stood and walked away.

* * *

><p>Wilson opted to travel back in his parents' car, House taking the lead alone as they returned to his apartment. He waited in the Volvo that he'd driven instead of his bike, running his fingers over the steering wheel and still-shiny interior as he imagined Wilson sitting where he sat, the wives and various women beside him changing as quickly as the images in a flipbook. He tried to imagine the rest of his life in the car, the lingering scent of Wilson filling his nostrils as the empty passenger's seat seemed to burn into his lungs, and it wasn't until half a bottle of Vicodin later that he calmed his breathing down.<p>

At length he saw Wilson walking up the apartment steps, while his parents' car drove quietly away.

He followed him inside, watching silently as Wilson shrugged off his jacket and shoes, changed into his pajamas, and crawled into bed. It was early yet, but there was no need to ask if the day had worn Wilson out.

Easing himself onto the bed beside him, House gently turned Wilson onto his back and lifted his shirt, examining the tender area where the fluid had been drained. "Dressing looks good," he commented lightly.

Wilson grunted, either in agreement or in pain, and House let his shirt fall back into place. "Meds?" he suggested.

Wilson ignored him, and House decided on a different approach.

"When are they coming back?"

Wilson shrugged. "They're not."

"I know my apartment is the equivalent of a garbage dump, but – "

"Dad can't look at me and mom can't handle it. And frankly, I don't want her to have to."

House hid a grimace and laid down beside him, his arm reaching up to wrap around Wilson's torso. A compliant Wilson let his hand drift out from under the covers, taking House's in his own.

"I've been told," House tried at last, "that when it comes to family, you gotta do what you gotta do." He met Wilson's curious glance with a slight smile. "Words of wisdom from Tiny Taub," he explained.

"You know, I totally forgot about him," Wilson mused. "He left for family reasons?"

"There were tinier Taubs involved, as I recall."

Wilson smirked in response. "Any other news you failed to tell me? Such as…why Cuddy dropped by at the lake today?"

House shrugged. "Didn't think you saw her."

"I'm not blind, House. My parents wanted to know if you two were together."

"You didn't tell them?" House asked, eyebrows raised.

Wilson didn't need to ask what he meant. "I think seeing me…like this…was enough for one day." House nodded in understanding, and Wilson prodded him further. "Well? Everything okay with Cuddy?"

"Everything's puppies and rainbows," House shrugged. "Her ex-boyfriend going gay for her ex-platonic friend just seemed to make the puppies less cute and the rainbows less sparkly."

"Oh. What did you tell her?"

"That I only cheated in my head."

Wilson sighed. "You're supposed to reassure her, not confirm her worst fear."

"We've already confirmed it," House pointed out. "What is it with women who think that ex-boyfriends going gay makes them less womanly?"

"Well…how would you feel if Cuddy suddenly became a lesbian?"

"Totally turned on," House smirked.

"Okay…bad example," Wilson chuckled. "But women want their men to be…manly…and you going for another man…"

"Doesn't change the fact that she's still a hot piece of ass. I told her that." House glanced towards Wilson. "No offense."

"None taken, though I think that was more offensive to _her._" Wilson sighed a little, looking apologetic. "You know, you should probably hire a hooker, or something. I don't think I'll be much good in that department anymore."

"For God's sake, Wilson," House objected, and Wilson managed a small smile.

"I know, I know. But you can't blame me for feeling bad about it."

"But I _can_ blame you for being an idiot," House retorted. "Even if you _were _up for sex right now, I wouldn't put out for you. I do have my pride."

"A relationship is supposed to be give and take," Wilson murmured, closing his eyes tiredly. "All I seem to be doing lately is take."

"Funny, I don't think that even begins to make up for the past twenty-five years."

Wilson opened his eyes again to look at him. "You've given a lot more than you think you have, House."

"Maybe." House paused, his lips curling into a slight grin. "I can give a little more."

Wilson furrowed his brow as House removed his arm and began to disappear under the covers. "Hey…what…"

"Relax," came the muffled voice, and Wilson felt his pajama bottoms being pulled gently down.

"House, you can't be serious."

"I'm _always _serious. You should be flattered – how many guys with terminal cancer can still say they're getting any?"

"That's because their partners understand that they're tired and _dying_," Wilson muttered, frowning as his boxers were removed.

"Quibbles. Doesn't seem to be much you can do about it, anyway."

"Sure, take advantage of the sick guy."

"No means yes, doesn't it?" House said innocently.

Moments later, the uncontrollable gasp that escaped Wilson's lips wasn't _quite_ so innocent.

* * *

><p>Later that night, House waited until Wilson's eyelids fluttered closed before carefully easing himself off the bed, grabbing his cell phone, and scrolling through his address book as he left the bedroom.<p>

"Stacy," he said softly. "It's me. Yeah…I know. I need a favor. Seriously, if you hang up…no, it's for Wilson. No…no, he's not okay."

At the end of the call, he limp-shuffled into the kitchen, frowning as his search for food yielded nothing but old cans and half-eaten boxes of God knows what. Instinctively he glanced towards the bedroom, trying to remember if Wilson had actually eaten the toast he'd tried to force-feed him that morning, and his hand went to his cell phone again.

This time, the call went to Foreman.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	11. Chapter 11

_Posion and Wine_

_Chapter 11_

"Quit glaring at me like that," House muttered. "You look like I just made out with the guy."

Wilson continued to glare, and Chase glanced awkwardly at House. "Foreman will be here any minute," he said. "If you want, I can – "

"No." House broke his eye contact with Wilson, focusing on Chase instead. "Just do it."

Chase sighed, turning back to Wilson sympathetically. "I know you don't think you need this," he said, "but it's only going to help."

Receiving no response, he hesitantly took Wilson by the wrist, and at the lack of protest he began the procedure to insert the IV line. House observed with a watchful eye, and when it was done he took in the sight of Wilson, silent and resentful, sitting on the bed with an IV pole at his side and a tube of nutrients and fluids running into his veins.

"You knew this was coming," he tried at last. "It'd be pretty lame if you starved to death now."

"You didn't even ask me," Wilson sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "No warning, no heads up, no 'Hey, Wilson, just letting you know that I'll be force-feeding you tomorrow'…"

"Don't be such a drama queen."

There was a knock at the front door, and Chase looked relieved. "That's probably Foreman. I'll go let him in and he can finish up here...we're taking turns monitoring the patient. Okay, Dr. Wilson?"

"Yeah," Wilson sighed quietly. "Thanks, I guess."

House leaned against the wall as Chase left the room, not bothering to be discrete as he popped a couple of Vicodin. "You know I had to," he said. "Maybe I should've told you, but that would be very unlike me, wouldn't it?"

"And it would be very unlike me not to call you an ass, so here – you're an ass," Wilson deadpanned.

"And now we're even."

"Hey," Foreman greeted before Wilson could respond. "You guys doing okay?"

House turned towards the doorway, raising his eyebrows. "I see you brought a friend."

* * *

><p>Wilson moved to face the side of the room, letting his legs hang over the bed as he fiddled with the IV pole beside him. Foreman had quickly double-checked the line before leaving the room with House, saying something about bringing in IV refills and talking about the patient.<p>

Thirteen smiled wanly from the chair they'd drawn for her, her relentless twitching an undeniable sign of her failing health.

"You can say it," she said. "I look like shit."

Even her voice was beginning to catch on every other word, but Wilson held his gaze steady. "That makes two of us," he pointed out, managing a small laugh.

"At least our minds are still in tact."

"Sometimes I wonder if that's more a curse than a blessing, actually."

Her head jerked slightly in what Wilson presumed was a nod, and her expression resumed the quiet seriousness that he remembered from years past. "When did you find out?" she asked.

"Recently. I was – "

"With Amber. I know."

He didn't bother to correct her. "I guess you'll always think of her when you think of your own diagnosis," he said instead.

"The day she got her life back...I lost mine." Thirteen tilted her head, smiling in what looked like amusement. "Should've known you and House would end up together."

Wilson chuckled. "Was it obvious to you?"

"It did cross my mind."

"Wish you'd said something. Maybe we would've had more time." He cleared his throat, willing the wave of sadness to pass as he looked intently at her. "Remy...can I ask why you're here?"

"Foreman invited me along for the ride."

"You know what I mean. Not that it isn't great to see you, but…"

Her shoulders inched upwards into a shrug. "I'm dying, you're dying. Thought we could have a party, celebrate."

"Is that what House said?"

"House had no idea. I heard what was going on with you, and…I know we never talked much before, but sometimes it's nice to talk to someone else who's on the brink."

Wilson nodded. He couldn't argue with that. "Do you know how long you have?"

"You're too focused on time, Wilson," Thirteen sighed. "The time you _could've_ had, the time you _do _have…it's not about that."

"Isn't it?"

"You were gone for five years, and suddenly you're back with who knows how many weeks ahead of you. If you're going to sit around and count the days, you may as well have stayed where you were."

"You've changed, you know that?" Wilson mused.

"Maybe," Thirteen said, a small smile forming on her lips. "It could be worse. But House lets me in on differentials and we've got our death pact. And when I think back on how I've lived my life…I actually feel pretty good about it."

Wilson's brow furrowed in confusion. "Death pact?"

"Didn't he tell you about the time I was in prison?"

Now Wilson's eyebrows shot in the opposite direction. "No."

"The details aren't important. Long story short, at the end of it all, he promised to kill me – you know, when the time comes."

Wilson's expression softened – into numbness or awe, he couldn't tell which. "You mean…?"

"'I'll kill you.' That's what he said." Thirteen leaned forward a bit, holding Wilson's stunned gaze. "It's a good thing," she said. "It's exactly what I want."

"I…look, maybe you think that now, but – "

"You're a doctor, Wilson. You know what the end of Huntington's looks like. _This, _right here? This is nothing." She sighed as Wilson remained silent. "To be more precise, you're an oncologist. You know as well as I do that liver cancer isn't pretty."

"Metastatic," Wilson muttered.

"Even better."

Wilson sighed, unable to muster up an argument. "'I'll kill you,' huh?" he repeated at last. "That's really what he said?"

"It's the best thing anyone's ever said to me." Thirteen paused, as if in thought. "You know he'd do it for you, too, if you wanted."

Wilson immediately shook his head. "I know you mean well, but – "

"Forget I said anything. Just…know that he would. That's what's important." She smiled again, in a way that made Wilson's heart break. "Don't let anyone talk shit about your boyfriend, Wilson. We may all want to push him off a cliff, but…he's one of the greatest men I know."

* * *

><p>House took Thirteen's place when she left with Foreman, twirling his cane in his hands as he leaned back and propped his feet on the bed.<p>

"Good talk?" he asked.

Wilson shrugged, letting his hand run gently up and down what he could reach of House's legs. "It was unexpected, but…interesting. I heard about your death pact."

"What about it?"

"Nothing."

"Too crazy for your moral compass to comprehend?"

"I didn't like it at first," Wilson admitted. "I'd be lying if I said I haven't done my share of it for patients, but it just seemed different, her being your employee."

"And now?"

"Now…the more I think about it, the more it seems…kind of sweet."

"_Sweet?_" House practically gagged.

"Well, you know," Wilson pressed. "It was nice…in your own, twisted kind of way."

"Sure. Save dying patients by day, kill dying colleagues by night." House paused his cane-twirling, meeting Wilson's gaze. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"My death pacts aren't exclusive."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to make that pact," Wilson shrugged.

"So think about it. You got time."

Wilson chuckled, and House frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just…something that Thirteen and I were talking about."

"Is she your bestest buddy now?"

"Better watch out. If the past is any indication, chances are I'll cheat on you with her."

"Oh, yeah. I could get off just thinking about the sex you two would have."

Wilson shook his head with a snort. "Anyway…any other surprises I should know about?"

"Then they wouldn't be surprises," House replied smoothly.

"Seriously, House," Wilson frowned. "Today it's an IV, tomorrow it'll be a catheter up my urethra."

"As fun as that sounds, I was thinking more along the lines of Stacy coming over this weekend."

"You finally got in touch with her?"

"The bitch almost hung up on me," House grunted.

Wilson couldn't hide a chuckle. "Well, you _are _her ex."

"I'm her ex who saved her husband's life and saved _her _from a life of misery with _me_," House pointed out. "I guess I should tell you that she doesn't know about us."

"Guess we'll have to surprise her, then."

House's lips quirked into a smirk as he hoisted himself up to sit beside Wilson on the bed, carefully avoiding the IV line as he drew him into a tongue-filled kiss. "I like surprises," he said as they finally withdrew for air.

"Never said I didn't," Wilson breathed. "But when it comes to medical – "

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. In the meantime…you still like _other_ surprises, don't you?"

"Always will," Wilson assured him, and leaned in to kiss House again.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	12. Chapter 12

_Poison & Wine_

_Chapter 12_

* * *

><p>It happened several days later, the morning of Stacy's scheduled arrival.<p>

House heard the dull _thud _from where he stood at the kitchen counter, ground coffee flying everywhere as he abandoned his current task and limped – hell, _ran _– into the bedroom. Wilson was leaning heavily over the nightstand, his right hand gripping the furniture as his left grasped the IV pole, breathing hard.

A string of questionable utterances, some not even in English, escaped House's mouth as he somehow got Wilson to let go of the nightstand and collapse back onto the bed.

"Wilson – "

"I'm…I'm fine. House – "

"Hold _still_."

Too weak to protest against House's examination, Wilson closed his eyes and let him have at it with the poking and prodding. "I just had to pee," he murmured. "That damn diuretic…"

"Forget the diuretic. What happened?" House pressed.

"I just…I couldn't catch my breath. But I'm fine now. Honest." To prove it, Wilson attempted a deep breath in, only to end it in a fit of coughing.

"Shit_._" House reached into his pocket for his cell phone, wincing as his leg screamed from his earlier efforts.

"House, honestly," Wilson sputtered between coughs. "It's been…happening…for a while now…and I - "

House's fingers paused mid-dial. "_What?_"

Taking a few more moments to recover, Wilson sighed, his own fingers drifting upwards to rub his temple.

"I've been short of breath for a while now," he repeated wearily. "It's nothing unexpected and I didn't want to worry you."

He could feel House's stare bearing into him – in disappointment? In acceptance? Wilson couldn't tell. Eventually House completed the phone call, muttering something to Foreman about driving over stat, and Wilson being a moron.

"I'm sorry," Wilson murmured.

"You should be," House snapped.

"No, I'm…I'm sorry."

House followed Wilson's downward line of sight, and seeing the wet puddle that had formed, he gripped his shoulder against Wilson's stunned gaze.

"It's okay," House said quietly. "It's okay, Wilson."

"I…I just…I _can't_," Wilson whispered, his voice breaking.

House couldn't remember the last time he could think of nothing to say.

He also couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Wilson cry.

* * *

><p>The expression of pity on Stacy's face made House want to puke. "Jesus, Greg," she said softly.<p>

He tapped the seat beside him with his cane, not bothering with a greeting of his own as he sipped the coffee that Foreman had brought him after leaving Wilson in Jenkins' hands. "How's Mark?" he asked.

She ignored him, sitting gingerly down as she glanced around the hospital's waiting room. "How's James?" she replied evenly.

"Just dying. No biggie." House leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, stretching out his legs and letting his cane rest across his thighs. "He probably doesn't remember that you were coming today." Turning his head to inspect her appearance, he added, "You look good."

"And you look like hell." She reached over to him, using her hand to smooth down a particularly uncooperative patch of hair. "So you swallowed that colossal pride of yours and called me, huh?" she teased gently. "You must really like the guy."

"You could say that," House muttered, swatting away her hand with a _stop-mothering-me_ glare.

Stacy sighed, withdrawing. "I can't believe he came back after all these years, only to be…God, it's just so _sad_."

House shrugged. "Like you care. When's the last time you even talked to him?"

"You don't have sole custody over him," Stacy countered. "He's _my_ friend, too. I know it's been a while, but you can't just erase that kind of history. I mean, look at the two of you – five years gone and suddenly he's back on your couch again."

"Something like that."

As if on cue, Jenkins strode into the waiting area before Stacy could reply. "Dr. House?"

"Yeah." House sat a little straighter in the chair, rolling his eyes as Stacy scrambled to stand up. "He's a doctor, not a judge," he muttered.

"Hi. I'm Stacy Warner, a friend of James," she greeted, pretending not to hear him.

"She's also a lawyer," House interrupted, "so don't go carving your initials into any organs." He shrugged as Stacy gave him a warning slap on the shoulder, and reached into his jacket pocket for another Vicodin. After the morning's hectic rush, the bottle was nearly empty.

Jenkins pretended not to notice. "Rob Jenkins, Head of Oncology. Dr. Wilson is stable, but given the fluid build-up and lung metastases, we'd like to keep him on O2 and leave the catheter in place."

"Someone's gonna be a happy camper," House grumbled.

Stacy clicked her tongue at him before turning back to Jenkins. "When can we see him?"

"He doesn't want any visitors," Jenkins admitted. "We're keeping him under observation for the next couple of hours, but he'll be released today. Dr. Cuddy will make the necessary arrangements, I'm sure."

"Home care," House clarified at Stacy's puzzled look. "Listen, doc. Let Stacy into his room."

"Dr. Wilson explicitly stated – "

"He doesn't want to see _my _sorry ass, but a beautiful woman might do him some good. Don't you think?"

Jenkins sighed as Stacy, though clearly flattered, rolled her eyes.

"Alright, Ms. Warner. This way, please."

* * *

><p>Wilson glanced sharply at the door as it opened, his expression softening when he saw who had come in. "Stacy! My God, I'm sorry…you were supposed to come over today, weren't you?"<p>

"Oh, James." Stacy scurried over in her heels, planting a kiss on his forehead and pulling the visitor's chair closer to the bed. "Nevermind that. How are you feeling?"

"Could be worse," he shrugged. "It's been a long time, hasn't it? It's good to see you."

Stacy nodded. "I hope you don't mind me being here. Your doctor said you didn't want visitors, and if you'd rather be alone, I – "

"No, no, it's fine. I'm glad you came." Wilson offered her a small, tired smile. "I just needed a break from House, that's all."

"Can I blame you?" Stacy snorted. "I can't believe you've been staying with him for as long as you have."

"I guess we manage somehow," Wilson chuckled. "But mostly, I didn't want him seeing me like this."

"Like what?" Stacy countered, but Wilson shook his head.

"Stacy, there are tubes up my nose and up my…well, you know. I know it's hard for me, but it's hard for him, too. I think we both needed a breather, even just for a few hours."

She nodded, sighing a little. "You know why House called me, but if there's anything else I can do…"

"Just the lawyer stuff would be a huge help," he assured her.

"Of course."

"It's simple, really. I don't have a lot – most of it was lost while I was away. But what savings I have…whatever it is I have left…I want it all to go to House."

"We can arrange that," Stacy said slowly. "But…isn't there anyone else? Family, friends…a girlfriend?"

"There's only House," Wilson said quietly. "There's only ever been House."

As the puzzlement in her eyes slowly turned to realization, he nodded, tentatively offering her a smile. "It's why I came back to him," he explained. "Are you…if this is making you uncomfortable…"

"Of course not." Stacy shook her head, managing a smile in return. "I guess I always should've known."

"Nothing happened between us until now," he said gently.

She took a deep breath, affectionately patting Wilson's hand. "He wouldn't have called me for anyone else, you know."

"I know."

"You're a lucky man, James. And I know that sounds like an awful thing to say, with you being so ill…but I mean it. You're a lucky man."

Wilson let his fingers curl comfortingly around her own. "You still love him, don't you?"

"Once you love Gregory House, it's a lifetime commitment," she said with a laugh. "But you get over it."

"He did love you, Stacy. You know that, right?"

"I know. Oh, I know he did. But you were always the love of his life…and everyone who knew the two of you should have seen that."

It was quiet for a few moments, and at last Wilson inhaled deeply through the cannula. "Can you ask Cuddy to be my executor?" he asked quietly. "I trust you and her to work together to make sure it's all taken care of."

Stacy nodded, giving him a peck on the cheek. "I'll get the papers drawn up and we'll talk more about it later, okay? You should get some rest."

"Okay." Wilson watched as she stood, smoothing out her skirt and re-fluffing her hair. "Thanks, Stacy."

"Thank _you_, James," she murmured with a smile, and quietly left the room.

* * *

><p>The bedroom seemed smaller than usual. Too many poles and tanks and tubes, Wilson thought wearily, his eyes skimming over his surroundings as House quadruple-checked the oxygen levels and IV drip. He didn't even want to think about the drainage bag hanging over the side.<p>

All of the furniture had been rearranged to allow for a wheeled-in hospital bed and the other necessary equipment. House had insisted that his bed be next to Wilson's ("You've all got medical degrees and you can't even play a game of Tetris?" he'd yelled), and despite the initial headaches, an acceptable solution had finally been found. Wilson had been relieved when Chase and Foreman finally left, assuming House would calm down, but the diagnostician had continued to inspect their work long after they'd gone.

At last, he grumbled, "I guess they did okay. They shouldn't have rushed it."

"They didn't rush it," Wilson sighed, for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. "They have another patient, and this is a standard set-up."

House muttered something about how Thirteen would have done a better job before collapsing onto his own bed beside him. "Stacy said she'd be coming back," he said, more audibly this time. "Went well?"

Wilson nodded. "I told her what I wanted, and I guess she'll draw up the papers and I'll sign them…and that'll be that."

"She said she had to talk to Cuddy before she left. What gives?"

"Just…legal stuff." Wilson glanced helplessly over at House's thin-lipped expression of nothing, trying to smile. "At least you got them to move the TV in here, too. The dresser-top was an excellent choice."

"Yeah." House grabbed the remote from where he'd flung it earlier on the bed, turning on the television and beginning to flip through the channels.

"Anything good on?"

He didn't answer. Eventually setting the remote down, it seemed that he had settled on the weather channel.

"Well," Wilson said. "This is certainly intriguing."

"Yep," House agreed.

"You don't want to think about anything right now, do you."

Their otherwise smooth conversation quivered slightly with a barely noticeable pause. "Nope."

Wilson nodded. He understood. "Okay," he said simply.

He almost didn't hear House's echo, lost in the background noise of smiling weathermen and images of blue skies and sunshine.

"Okay."

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	13. Chapter 13

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 13_

**A/N:** If you've seen "In the Gloaming," certain aspects of the last few chapters may seem familiar. (Haven't decided if I'll have 1 more chapter or 2, but definitely gearing up for the end. Thanks for bearing with me!)

* * *

><p>It was funny, Wilson thought, how quickly the last of the summer heat gave way to the cool, late September air.<p>

What wasn't as funny was how much it sucked to be dying.

Sometimes it would hit him late at night, curled up with House in a bed that was too small for the both of them, that he couldn't remember things. He'd forgotten the taste of a good steak, for example, or the feeling of the hardwood floor against his feet, or how to breathe without acknowledging the effort. And the pills couldn't mask all of the pain, even in combination with House's hand in his own. A week had gone by, then two and then three, and as the dates kept time with his increasing levels of pain, he often wondered if there had ever been a point to it all.

But then there'd be a moment – House's beard gently tickling Wilson's cheek, or the lingering taste of a lollipop in his kiss, or even the gentle thumping of his cane as he neared the bedroom door – and Wilson would remember. And he'd place a soothing hand on House's thigh, rubbing comfort into the mangled flesh beneath the mask of denim. There wasn't much left that he could do, but this was one thing that he _could_, and he hoped it was enough.

Today they were sitting at the lake, at Wilson's request. His wheelchair was parked next to House's bench, with Chase and Foreman waiting idly further down the path. They'd draped him in sweaters and blankets, a wool hat placed firmly over his head; the IV was temporarily removed, but the blankets hid the drainage bag and the oxygen tank was nestled in the back. House sat quietly beside him, content in a light fall jacket with a thermos of hot coffee between his hands and his cane draped over his arm.

A slight breeze wafted through the air, and House inched closer. "You warm enough?" he asked.

Wilson nodded, lifting his oxygen mask to his face with a gloved hand. He'd insisted that his nasal passages needed a break, but really, he just hated the way that the cannula had made him feel – tied down, restricted, attached to a machine. It wasn't much, but there was a sense of freedom in the alternative mask, an ability to control exactly when it was that breathing would become a little easier.

Stacy had returned a couple of weeks ago, and he'd signed the necessary papers and said his goodbyes – beyond the legal role that she'd need to assume later, there was no reason for her to keep coming back to a place that reopened old wounds. Cuddy, who'd accepted the executor position without hesitation, stopped by the apartment every once in a while, checking on the medical supplies and keeping House's kitchen stocked so that he wouldn't starve.

It was funny, Wilson thought, how the women in House's life seemed to be returning just as Wilson had weaseled his way back in.

God, a lot of stupid shit seemed funny these days.

Minus dying.

He slowly removed the mask, letting his hand drop back down to his lap. "House?"

House took a sip of coffee, his eyes fixated on the lake. "Yeah?"

The smallest hint of a smile crossed Wilson's face, and House turned to see what was taking him so long to reply.

"I love you," Wilson said at last, and let the welcome wave of comfort wash over him. There was more he could contribute than just leg massages, it seemed.

The quiet resumed. They were practically alone, save for Foreman and Chase kicking pebbles along the edge of the water and the stray bird here and there avoiding the traditional migration southward. Beside him, House seemed to be breathing, thinking, the thermos turning circles between his palms.

Wilson decided to nudge him further. "I hadn't said it yet. Figured now was as good a time as any."

"You don't have to say it," House replied quietly.

"I know."

House sighed, glaring at him a little. "Now I'm going to look like an ass if I don't say it back."

"You always look like an ass," Wilson retorted. "But it's okay. You don't have to say it back."

"Why not?"

"Because saying it makes it real, and then what's happening to me becomes real, and all of that psychological bullcrap." Wilson shrugged, taking a breath from the mask again. "Neither of us needs to say it, but I wanted to."

"So the fact that you said it means you're fine with all of this cancer-eating-up-your-insides garbage."

"And the fact that _you_ said _that _means you've implicitly accepted my psychological bullcrap, thereby validating it."

"Except that you can't validate bullcrap," House retorted.

Wilson smiled again, knowing he'd won.

House sighed and took another sip of coffee. "Anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Wilson paused for a few moments, thinking. "When did you know that you loved me?" he finally asked.

"What kind of a question is that?" House frowned.

"A legitimate one."

"You know it's always been there."

"Yeah, but I mean…there's gotta be a point, a moment, when you just _know. _Like your epiphanies, right? The answer's been there all along, but then that light bulb goes off in your head, and it's just…it's beautiful."

House snorted softly. "Jesus, Wilson."

"Oh, c'mon, House. Humor me a little."

House looked like he was about to protest, but at length he shrank back into his jacket, caving in to Wilson's request. He stared down at the thermos, blue eyes darkened by its reflection.

"It was Amber," he said at last, "when you asked if I would help her. I knew I couldn't say no…but it wasn't for her."

Wilson grimaced in a way that had nothing to do with his physical pain.

"Your turn," House said, turning back to him.

"It was the same," Wilson shrugged, surprised to find that he wasn't surprised at all. "It was that moment, when I asked you."

House waited for an explanation, and Wilson sighed. "I was hurting," he said quietly. "I needed Amber to live, because she was the only piece of you that I had. And when I asked you…_God_, I wanted to kill myself. But then I thought…if you died…maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I could stop thinking about you and move on. And then I knew."

He lifted the oxygen mask and inhaled deeply, as if illness was the only reason why it was suddenly so hard to breathe, aware of House's crystal eyes gently bearing into him.

"And then you left," House said.

Wilson nodded, removing the mask. "And then I left."

Foreman and Chase were jogging back to them, looking concerned. "You okay, Wilson?" Foreman asked. "If you're getting cold, we should get you back home."

"I'm fine, guys," Wilson assured them, managing a smile. "Just a little while longer, okay?"

House nodded his approval, and the two doctors returned to their former positions at a respectful distance away.

"So you're fine with this cancer-eating-your-insides thing," he said again, once they'd gone. A statement, not a question.

Wilson shrugged. "I think I have to be."

"No, you don't."

"What happened to just accepting that life sucks, and moving on?"

"What happened to, 'Oh, House, my two-year-old patients were braver than me?'" House countered mockingly. "What happened to crying in a puddle of pee on my bed, telling me you couldn't do it?"

"What happened was that I stopped having time to be scared, because I was too busy trying to stop the pain from killing me first," Wilson replied calmly, accepting House's sharp remark as an indication of the diagnostician's own fear. "Maybe death doesn't seem so unwelcome anymore."

He glanced over at House, his expression unwavering. "Maybe your death pact doesn't seem so unwelcome anymore, either."

He continued on when House didn't answer. "These past few weeks I've done nothing but let you love me, even more than when I first came back. On bad days, I kept saying to myself – why the hell am I bothering? But of course, _you _were the reason why."

He felt House's hand slip into his, and he smiled at the warmth.

"Dying was scary because I felt like there'd be so much I was missing," Wilson added quietly. "But what Thirteen said about time…it's so true. All the time we could've had, should've had – none of that matters. Because the time we _have _had, and the time we _do _have? I couldn't have asked for anything more."

"Didn't realize Thirteen was such a genius."

"You wouldn't have hired her if she wasn't."

House paused, thinking again. "If I kill you," he said at last, "the time we have left will be…"

"Gone," Wilson agreed. "A memory that you'll never have to have."

The details of the end-stage days didn't need to be said. House squeezed Wilson's hand, signing off on the pact.

"So you're okay," he said.

"Yeah," Wilson nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay. And you will be, too."

House snorted. "Yeah. I'm fucking fantastic. I can't even…" He glanced away, eyes glinting in a subtle sign of shame that only Wilson had learned to recognize with ease. "You should hate me, for all the things I haven't said to you."

Wilson shook his head. "Haven't you learned by now, House? It isn't what you say – it's what you do. And I love you for it."

Another breeze rattled through the air, and House squeezed Wilson's hand again. "We should head back," he said. "It's cold, and time's a-wastin'."

Wilson smirked, using the elastic band to secure the oxygen mask in place as House whistled for Foreman and Chase to return.

"We aren't dogs, you know," Foreman sighed, taking the handlebars as Chase bent down to release the locks on the wheelchair.

"No, you're my slaves," House retorted. "Don't make me get my whip out. You wouldn't mind if I borrowed our little _toy_, would you, Wilson?"

"No offense, Dr. Wilson, but I hope your boyfriend treats you better than he treats us," Chase muttered as he stood, brushing the stray gravel from his slacks.

House patted Chase on the head before beginning to lead the way back, heading to where they'd parked the hospital's borrowed medivan. "It isn't about what I say," he called breezily over his shoulder, a sly smirk on his face.

Wilson only smiled through the mask, and the wheels began to turn.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	14. Chapter 14

_Poison and Wine_

_Chapter 14_

* * *

><p>All House wanted to do was change the subject.<p>

He was willing to talk about anything else. Starving children in Africa, the deficit, the annoyingly cheery sunshine pouring through the window. The latest breakthrough treatment for lupus. Anything, _anything, _but this.

But a death pact was a death pact, and for once he'd made a promise he intended to keep.

"It'll be easy," Wilson was saying. It was about a week after their discussion at the lake, his rapid decline noticeable even in such a short amount of time. They lay side-by-side in their own beds, House using the extra room to stretch out his leg.

"Easy," House repeated quietly. The word sounded foreign to him. Empty.

Wilson nodded. "You were taking a nap in the living room…you came back and the bottle was empty. There was nothing you could do."

House stared down at the full bottle of Vicodin twirling between his fingers. "And I left it here with a glass of water because…I'm an idiot?"

"Because the pills were for you, and the water was for me. And you trusted me." Wilson offered him a sad smile. "I'm not letting you go down for this, House."

"You think I care about that?"

"You should. _I _do, in any case." Wilson's hand clamped weakly around his, tugging gently. "Hey. We gotta do this while I can still swallow, you know."

"Not funny," House muttered.

Wilson sighed, eyes drifting up to the ceiling as if searching for some sort of miraculous answer. "You could pretend I'm Thirteen," he tried at last. "I _am _practically her weight by now."

"No boobs," House pointed out.

"Ah." Wilson nodded in mock serious agreement. "How could I forget the boobs?"

"Didn't seem to take you long."

"Speak for yourself."

They let the silence take over save for the occasional rattle of pills, hands still clasped across the beds and eyes fixated anywhere but at each other. The humming of the hospital equipment had become commonplace, background noise, a forgotten soundtrack to a movie that could only go on for so long.

At length, Wilson turned to him again. "What'll you miss the most?" he asked.

"Don't," House said, his stern glare matching his tone. "Don't think that using whatever crap you still remember from your psych rotation is going to make this all okay."

"I never thought that," Wilson replied gently. "I'm genuinely curious."

House frowned, but eventually he caved. "You first."

"I'll miss…I'll miss watching you sleep."

"You're going to miss the one time of day that I do absolutely nothing?"

"It's not nothing, House. It's feeling you breathe, watching your eyelids move, wondering what you're dreaming about." Wilson smiled broadly, continuing. "You'd turn in closer, reach out for me, even say my name in your sleep. Bet you didn't know that."

"Wouldn't have done it if I did," House retorted, though his lips quirked in response.

Wilson poked him. "Your turn."

House's expression grew serious as he thought. Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he grinned. "The sex," he declared, and Wilson let out a snort.

"Don't make me laugh," he sputtered. "Hurts."

House grabbed the oxygen mask as Wilson's laughs turned into coughs, holding his own breath until Wilson finally steadied his breathing. "I can get the cannula."

Wilson waved the mask away. "Is there really any point?"

House supposed not, and Wilson sighed.

"C'mere," he murmured, tugging his hand again.

House scooted closer as Wilson moved just enough to make room for them both on the hospital bed. They fell comfortably together, House's arm wrapped around Wilson's shoulders as Wilson's head rested on his chest.

"I want you to be happy," Wilson said quietly.

"I'll be fine."

"I mean it, House. Not just sit-around-all-day-with-beer-and-porn happy."

"How much more happy can I get?" House pointed out.

"Go to work, abuse your team, annoy Cuddy," Wilson continued firmly. "Do whatever you have to do to stay functioning and get out of the house. Promise?"

"Yes, mom."

"And promise me that you won't kill yourself."

House glanced down in surprise. "Metaphorically speaking?"

"I'm not an idiot, as much as you like to disagree. I know there'll be plenty more left after I down those pills."

"Some credit you give me," House muttered.

"Or maybe I just know you better than you know yourself."

"Yeah. Five years gone and you've got me all figured out."

"Always did," Wilson countered gently.

"Except the part about…"

"Yeah," Wilson murmured. "Would've been nice to have figured out that particular detail."

House hugged him closer, letting Wilson's hair graze his cheek. "Wilson."

"Hmm?"

"This sucks."

"Yeah." Wilson burrowed deeper, resting a soothing hand on House's bad thigh. "I know."

"You spend half your life working in oncology and then the universe turns around and lands you with this garbage. I'll probably end up with lupus next."

"Maybe things happen for a reason and maybe they don't," Wilson shrugged. "But I think if there _was _a reason, you would've found it. You're good at that."

House paused. "I should have followed you to Vegas," he said.

Wilson's expression softened. "We both should've done a lot of things, House."

"I shouldn't have given up on you."

"You didn't give up on me this time, even when I wanted you to. And I never should have left in the first place."

"You had good reason to leave."

"Just as you had good reason to stay." Wilson raised his head, planting a kiss on House's cheek. "Another thing you have to promise me: no regrets."

House grunted. "Bossy, much?"

"I learn from the best."

With a deep breath, House's gaze returned briefly to the catalyst in his hand before moving back to Wilson. "Are you ready?"

Wilson managed a flicker of a smile. "Are you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," Wilson replied gently.

In response, House popped the lid on the Vicodin bottle, turning Wilson's palm upwards as he emptied the pills. He reached over to grab the glass of water as Wilson glanced back at him once more.

"You can still say no," Wilson reminded him.

House shook his head. "A deal's a deal."

"I don't have to do this. I can wait it out, we can – "

"This isn't you being selfish," House said quietly. "It's me."

Wilson held his gaze, as if waiting for either of them to have a change of heart, but at length he nodded. It took several rounds to down all of the pills, taking a couple at a time as House held the straw to his lips.

The empty bottle was tossed to the foot of the bed. House held Wilson tightly to his chest, not knowing how many minutes had passed before Wilson spoke again.

"You know," he murmured sleepily, "there was this song I heard out in LA, at a folk concert I went to with Amber. And the whole time, all I could think about was you."

"Was it _Sexy Back_?"

"You wish. It was by a new duo…The Civil Wars."

"What was wrong with the War of 1812?"

"The song was called _Poison and Wine_," Wilson continued, ignoring him. "The lyrics…God, those lyrics. I remember Amber reaching over to take my hand, and I realized I was crying." He inhaled slowly, deliberately, savoring the feeling of the air entering his lungs. "You should look it up sometime, maybe find the chords. The piano part is beautiful."

House's gaze remained steady, the deepening pit in his stomach numbed by the familiarity of his mind in action. The mental gears whirred as he memorized Wilson the way he would have memorized a diagram in a textbook – the placement of his features, the dimensions, the colors, the textures. He took in deep brown eyes like the addictive rush of afternoon coffee, absorbed the peaceful smile of a man in the final moments of a paradise found too late. Beads of sweat began to seep into his grip and he held on tighter, not ready to close the book yet. Just one more minute, one more second, one more instant of clarity before he had to face the future alone.

_What'll you miss the most?_

_I'll miss the way you made the world make sense._

"Wilson," he whispered.

"Yeah, House?" Wilson murmured back.

"I love you."

Lips pressed against lips, and then there was silence. House closed his eyes against the slow, steady force that he couldn't stop, feeling the grip of Wilson's hand ease ever so slightly in his own.

And when he opened them again, Wilson was gone.

* * *

><p><em>TBC (Epilogue)<em>


	15. Epilogue

_Poison and Wine_

_Epilogue_

* * *

><p>House hated funerals. He hated the flowers, he hated the sermons, he hated the incessant sobbing that interrupted any possible moment of peace. More importantly, he didn't see the point of doing anything that he didn't want to do.<p>

So when they held Wilson's funeral, he didn't go.

He should have foreseen the consequences, but a few beers and a questionable number of pills later, none of it seemed to matter. Even when Cuddy knocked on his door, he didn't much care.

"How could you?" she whispered. Her eyes were red, her hand full of used tissues. _Pathetic._

"How'd it go?" he asked casually.

"House…" Cuddy shook her head, torn somewhere between sheer exhaustion and total incredulity. "You were his…you _loved _him. How could you purposely avoid his funeral?"

"Happy state the obvious day." House moved aside to let her into the apartment, swinging the door shut before limping back to living room and collapsing onto the couch. "Beer?"

"_House_." Cuddy rounded the couch, towering over him. "You should have been involved. You should have _been _there."

"His parents offered to arrange it," House shrugged. "Funerals are for attention-whoring morons, anyway. As if crying tears of agony in public makes you a better person."

Something changed in Cuddy's expression, and House braced himself. "If you won't grieve in public, fine," she began, "but you have to at least grieve privately." She hesitated, holding his gaze. "You _have _been grieving, haven't you?"

He didn't answer, and her face fell.

"My God, House. Have you even cried?"

Times like these, Cuddy was damn lucky to be a woman. House would've socked her otherwise.

"Crying's for sissies," he muttered.

Cuddy pursed her lips. "Look, I called Nolan the other day, and he said you could come by at any – "

"You had no right!" House stood angrily from the couch, ignoring the relief that came with feeling something. Anything.

"You need to talk to someone. If you can't talk to Nolan, then talk to me."

"You're my boss, not my shrink," House snapped. "Stick to your damn job and let me do mine."

Cuddy crossed her arms. "You won't _have_ a job until you talk to someone."

"I told him I'd go back to work," he argued. "Barring me from the hospital goes against his _explicit _wishes for – "

"I'm doing this as much for Wilson as I am for you," Cuddy said, her voice firm but softening. "You know that, House."

House recoiled at the mention of Wilson's name, slowly sitting back down on the couch. "You need to leave," he muttered.

"But – "

"I said _leave. _Now. Maybe I'll cry over the unbelievable lameness of this conversation once you're gone."

With a sigh, Cuddy slowly made her way to the door, pausing briefly as she reached for the doorknob. "I'm sure you promised him a lot of things, House," she said quietly. "But I don't think this was one of them."

He didn't bother turning around to watch her go.

* * *

><p>It's not that he didn't care. Anyone who actually thought he didn't care could go fuck themselves, and see how much he cared about <em>that. <em>

It's just like he said – funerals were for morons. A body was a body. You could dress it up, talk about it, cry over it all you wanted, but it wasn't waking up and coming back to life. He didn't need to watch them lower a corpse, dressed in a characteristic suit and questionable tie, into a six-foot-deep hole for fertilizer and worm food. There was just no point. Wilson wasn't _there._

Which was probably because Wilson was _here_, in the form of a brand spanking new organ that had taken the place of House's old piano.

Wilson had apparently added it to his will, a last-minute gift of which Stacy and Cuddy had overseen the deliverance. House had brushed away their attempts to keep him informed about Wilson's legal whatevers, but in addition to some extra cash, it seemed that the organ had made its way into his living room, whether he liked it or not.

"He was so excited about it, and I remembered how music always made you look at the world differently," Stacy had said, her eyes still gleaming in that God-awful pity that House hated. "I told him I thought it was a wonderful idea."

It had taken House two days to even look at the damn thing.

Cuddy was still keeping the hospital off-limits, so eventually House had sat down and let his fingers run over the keys – in sheer boredom, of course. In front of him, the _Poison and Wine_ sheet music he'd printed off waited quietly for his attention. He focused only on the notes, his eyes skimming over the chords as his fingers effortlessly followed. The lyrics, printed in small font between the staff lines, remained out of his line of sight.

He had to admit, it sounded nice. Wilson _would _like a sappy, pretty melody like this.

Resting his hands, House glanced over at the stereo, where a new album lay waiting to be heard. But he'd hit play another time.

* * *

><p>The voicemails were getting old.<p>

Cuddy, the team, even Stacy and Nolan – no one seemed to understand that all he wanted to do was eat, sleep, and occasionally play his new organ in peace.

"You can come back to work," Cuddy would say, her voice tinged with exasperation and a hint of surrender. "You know that's what he'd want. Just call Nolan back, House. _One _session. That's all we ask."

Sometimes she'd remind him that she was doing this for Wilson, too, and that's when he'd delete her message before it was even over.

He'd actually been spending most of his time regretting a particular promise he'd made regarding full bottles of Vicodin and playing copy-cat. He'd pop a pill or two, then three or four or five more, and then he'd physically need to separate himself from the rest before he poured them down his throat. He wasn't even in that much pain – he'd spent the past week sitting around eating beans out of a can and watching reruns of _The Biggest Loser_ – and he wasn't even upset. He wasn't sad, he wasn't angry, he wasn't disappointed. He felt nothing at all, and he was bored out of his mind, and gulping down what was left of his stash was becoming more and more appealing. Even his few attempts at masturbating had been pathetic, embarrassing fails.

But a promise was a promise. And a body was a body, and a death pact was a death pact, and a miserable existence was a miserable existence.

_Another thing you have to promise me: no regrets._

Between his obvious failure in that regard and his inability to go back to work, staying alive was the only way House could keep himself from being a complete lying asshole.

_The lyrics…God, those lyrics…You should look it up sometime, maybe find the chords._

Glancing back at the organ, he furrowed his brow in thought. He hadn't exactly made a promise there, but…

Too tired for his usual mental list of pros and cons, he limped over to the stereo and set the album to the fifth song, easing himself onto the organ seat as the CD whirred to the requested track.

The beginning of the now-familiar melody filled the air. House's fingers silently hovered above the corresponding keys, unprepared for the way the subsequent words made them freeze in their tracks.

_There was this song I heard out in LA…And the whole time, all I could think about was you._

It didn't matter that Wilson's body was in a cemetery somewhere, surrounded by dirt and topped with a stone like everyone else whose time had come to an end. House had been right – Wilson was _here_. Wilson was everywhere, in everything House that felt – in the smooth wood of the organ that he gripped, in the words of the song that slid into his ears and sliced through his chest, in the sudden thickness of the air that he could barely breathe. He couldn't tell the difference anymore between reality and song, between what he'd heard before and what he was hearing now.

_I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back_

_The less I give, the more I get back…_

House closed his eyes and let himself become lost, falling into crystal clear images of a past he'd worked so hard to forget. Wilson walking away from his hospital bed, Wilson trying to talk on the phone over Amber's voice in the background, Wilson's handwriting on a postcard whose desperation was masked by indifference.

Wilson's number illuminating House's cell phone screen after five years of agonizing silence.

"_I'm thinking about coming home."_

"_Funny. If it were me, I'd want to be anywhere but home."_

"_If you think it's a bad idea – "_

"_No. Forget it. You can catch the next flight out and stay with me."_

"_Really? You'd be okay with that?"_

"_You know it's over when Boy Wonder Oncologist gets terminal cancer, and I'm gonna need a buddy if it's the end of the world. Bum leg, and all that."_

"_House…I don't know what to say."_

"_Talking's overrated. Just get your ass over here and I'll order Chinese."_

"_Just like old times, huh?"_

"_Would you have it any other way?"_

"_I'll see you soon, House."_

He opened his eyes, inhaling sharply as he came up for air.

_I don't have a choice, but I still choose you._

He breathed as if he hadn't breathed in years, clutching the sides of the organ like a life raft. The song was winding down, the final chorus coming to a close.

_I don't love you, but I always will._

For a moment there was silence, and as the notes of the next song began to drift through the air, House bent his head and let the first tears fall.

* * *

><p>The next day, the packed suitcase waited patiently at his side as he sat by the organ again, his cell phone in his hand.<p>

Cuddy answered almost immediately. "House?"

"Hey," he said. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Are you alright? What do you need?"

"I need a ride."

Cuddy hesitated. "You have your motorbike _and _Wilson's car. Where are you going that you need me to take you?"

"Mayfield," House replied simply, and waited for the inevitable surprise to leave her enough cognitive ability to speak again.

"Is this…something that you told him you'd do?"

_You _know _I hope you'll find it in yourself to get clean again one day. But I'm certainly not going to dump you for it now._

"Nope," he shrugged. "But I'm doing it."

"House, I think that's wonderful. I really do."

"So get over here. Are we doing this for Wilson, or what?"

And on the other end of the line, he could feel Cuddy's smile matching his own.

* * *

><p><em>Fin<em>


End file.
